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A PILLAR OF SALT 


1 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


THE SINS OF THE CHILDREN 
THE SOCIALIST COUNTESS 
THE EALING MIRACLE 
PANSY MEARES 
A '^YOUNG LADY’’ 

THE HOME OF THE SEVEN 
DEVILS 


A PILLAR OF SALT 

A STORY OF MARRIED LIFE 


BY 

HORACE W. C. NEWTE 

n 

AUTHOR OF 


“sparrows,” “the home of the seven devils,” 

ETC. 


NEW YORK 

JOHN LANE COMPANY 

MCMXIV 




Copyright,' 1914 
BY JOHN LANE COMPANY 


OCT 2719141^ 

I.A387215 

^ / 


CONTENTS 


PART I 

THE WILDERNESS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. A BREEZE 7 

11 . IRENE SYLVESTER IQ 

III. earl’s court, s.w. 32 

rv. THE “DUDLEY” 45 

V. PENANCE 59 

VI. MRS. GIBBARd’s MONDAY 72 

VII. A prodigal’s return 85 

VIII. DIVERS WOMEN IO3 

IX. “WE DECEIVE OURSELVES” II6 

X. VANITIES I3I 

XL THE AWAKENING I42 

XII. THE MIRACLE 153 

XIIL TWO WOMEN 168 

XIV. THE INJURED WIFE 181 

XV. THE MOMENTOUS MEETING 194 

XVI. A COMFORTER 206 

XVII. THE CRISIS 217 

XVIII. KISSES WITHOUT WORDS 22 $ 

PART II 

THE PROMISED LAND 

XIX. WORDS WITHOUT KISSES 232 

XX. THE day’s work 243 

XXL THE EXPERIMENT 252 

XXIL LOOKING BACKWARD 263 

5 


6 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEE 

PAGE 

XXIII. THE UNEXPECTED 

273 

XXIV. WRAITHS 

285 

XXV. IRMA’s PLAYTHING 

299 

XXVI. APOTHEOSIS 

307 

XXVII. A NIGHT OUT 

315 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


PART I 

THE WILDERNESS 
CHAPTER I 

A BREEZE 


'"Good-morning, dear 

Avice pretended sleep. 

“Good-morning, dear!’" repeated her husband, and in a 
louder voice. 

Avice was in two minds whether she should still resent 
Leonard’s refusal to take her to the “Dudley” dance: per- 
haps she would have chosen the better way if he had not 
leaned over and kissed her lips. 

“Don’t!” she cried petulantly. 

“I thought you were asleep, dear!” 

“So I was.” 

“But you heard what I said!” 

“How do you know?” she asked, and none too gra- 
ciously. 

“Because I do. Surely you’re not still in the sulks !” 

“I’m never sulky,” declared Avice untruthfully. “It’s 
you who are unreasonable.” 

“I thought — I hoped there was to be an end of all this,” 
said Leonard in a low voice. “You remember what you 
said the other day!” 

“How can there be if you go on so?” 

There was an irritation in her voice which belied her 
feelings of the moment: she had got over her annoyance 
at being kissed ; and his gentleness, for once, put her in the 

7 


8 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


mood to make it up; perhaps because she saw thereby a 
means to get her own way. 

Leonard, apparently, thought further forbearance use- 
less: he got out of bed; put on his slippers and dressing- 
gown; and went in the direction of the bath-room, which 
served for his dressing-room. 

Avice heard him cheerily greet little Irma, who had long 
since risen, and was now having her hair brushed by her 
nurse; and while he was shaving, and waiting for the bath 
to fill, Leonard and his daughter kept up a running con- 
versation. 

Avice did not know whether to get up: she thought of 
pleading a headache, as ailing of any kind awoke her 
husband’s sympathy: but she had had a lot of headaches 
of late, and feared the device was showing signs of wear: 
she had not forgotten the fable of the boy and the 
wolf. 

It was too bad of her husband objecting to going out, 
and to want to stay at home; it was not as though she led 
a life of dissipation and was always gadding about; it 
was quite the contrary with her; and the long evenings at 
home, during which her husband either read, or played in- 
terminable chess with one of his cronies, had got on her 
nerves. 

He had promised to take her to this subscription dance, 
which most of her friends would attend ; indeed, it had 
been his idea they should go, and he had bought the tickets 
himself : and now, just because the nurse had heard 
overnight her mother was seriously ill, and was going oflf 
after breakfast to be with her for a day or two, Leonard 
wanted his wife to forgo the dance, and all because of 
Irma. 

There would be another maid in the house to look after 
the child; it was unreasonable of him to expect her to 
change her plans at the last moment : he had been quite put 
out at her flat refusal to do anything of the kind. 

He put Irma before his wife, and was always doing so ; 
the way he doted on the child was absurd ; he never seemed 
so happy as when he was playing with her, or taking her 
for walks, or planning some surprise for her in the shape 
of toys or amusements. 


A BREEZE 


9 


A wife should come first and 

There they were still chattering and joking; from the 
shrieks of childish laughter which came to her ears, 
Avice could pretty well guess he was crawling about like 
a dog; apparently to amuse the child; in reality to annoy 
his wife. 

No wonder Avice jumped out of bed, and slammed the 
door in order to show her resentment. 

She did her hair and dressed anyhow (this was not un- 
usual, as she believed anything would do for her husband) ; 
whilst thus employed she incontinently dwelled upon the 
slight she was certain was being put on her. 

No husband should shut up a wife with any ^‘go” in 
her, and expect her to live the life of a superior house- 
keeper, for that was what she was : if some wives “stuck 
it” (Avice’s expression) it was because they were frumps, 
and fit for nothing else. 

She had been so much admired, and would be still if 
she could only go out sometimes, that she had no intention 
of giving way this time; she would prove to Leonard that 
his old-fashioned notions of treating a wife were a dead 
letter. 

And as for his indulgence of Irma, in the future he would 
have to give more attention to his wife. 

She had not been made a fuss of as a child; anything 
but: she recalled how her old martinet of a father had 
ordered her days from her earliest years, and she waxed 
wrathful at the way Irma was spoiled. 

Small matter for wonder that she presented herself at 
the breakfast-table with her appealing face darkened by 
clouds. 

“Morning, mum,” cried Irma as she put up her face to 
be kissed. 

“Morning, dear,” returned her mother severely, and with- 
out looking down. 

The child pouted, held back gathering tears, and 
glanced for stay at her father, who was piling jam on her 
plate. 

Breakfast was eaten in silence. 

Avice, who was nursing her wrongs, hardly touched a 
thing: she was mindful that her husband was making a 


10 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


hearty meal and, of course, to annoy her: the fact of his 
devouring the eggs and bacon which were over put an edge 
on her ill-temper. 

^'You’ll see me to school, daddy!” said Irma after her 
father had wiped the jam from her lips and cheeks. 

“Not this morning,” cried Avice before Leonard could 
reply. 

“Mum!” from Irma. 

“Annie will take you to school this morning, dear.” 

“But she’s to go to her mother directly after breakfast,” 
remarked Leonard. 

“It won’t hurt her to wait five minutes.” 

“But !” 

“She’s lucky to get off as it is. It isn’t everyone who 
would let her go.” 

“Nonsense!” cried Leonard. 

“We won’t go into that now,” said Avice severely. 

“You’re coming back this evening, aren’t you, daddie?” 
said Irma, who got down from her chair and stood by her 
father. 

“Of course, dear.” 

“And you’re going to play with me?” 

“Of course.” 

“Like you did this morning!” 

“If you’re a good girl.” 

“I’m always good. And for ever so much longer !” 

“Perhaps.” 

Irma lifted her face; upon her father bending down to 
kiss her forehead, she threw her arms about his neck and 
held his head to hers. 

“Go now, dear, or you’ll be late,” said Leonard. 

“Won’t you come with me?” 

He glanced interrogatively at his wife. 

“Go downstairs and tell Annie to take you; and say I 
told you to say so.” 

“All right, mum,” said the child, and none too gra- 
ciously. 

“Aren’t you going to say good-bye to me?” 

“I was going to when I put on my hat.” 

“Don’t come in again. I want to speak to your 
father.” 


A BREEZE 


II 


Irma did not reply: she went to the door; waved and 
kissed her hand to her father; and left the room. 

The child’s preference for her father added fuel to the 
flames of her mother’s anger. 

She glanced at Leonard, whose eyes were fixed on where 
his daughter had disappeared, and still held the look of 
abiding affection with which he always regarded her: she 
had thought of a further appeal to her husband in order 
to get him to change his mind ; but there was no thought of 
her doing this now ; she was determined to go to the dance, 
and with him. 

"‘You quite understand about to-night!” she began. 

'‘What do you mean, dear?” 

She interpreted his reply as a symptom of weakness, and 
went on: 

“You know well enough what I mean ! I’ve quite decided 
to go.” 

“To the ‘Dudley’?” 

“Yes.” 

“You know my objections!” 

“By heart. But you always object to everything I 
want.” 

“Nothing in reason, dear.” 

“Everything I ever want to do is unreasonable according 
to you.” 

“There’s no occasion to get angry,” said Leonard as 
he filled his pipe. “We can surely discuss it without 
heat.” 

Aware she was appearing at a disadvantage, she all but 
lost her temper, and cried : 

“Who wouldn’t be angry if they were cooped up here as 
I am! Never seeing anyone; never going anywhere; and 
never being allowed to do as I want.” 

“If you ask me, I think you have your own way far too 
much.” 

“What!!!” 

“And that I give in to you far more than is good for 
you.” 

“Say that again,” she sneered. 

“And if I do, it’s only because I’m so fond of you,” he 
said gravely. 


12 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


^T like that,’’ she cried, and for a moment nonplussed 
by his earnestness. 

“And you know it; and you take advantag^e of it.” 

“If you were really fond of me, you’d give in to me in 
this. Besides, it’s only what you tell me.” 

“Haven’t I proved it in a thousand ways?” 

Countless instances of how Leonard had indulged her 
flashed across her mind : fearing she might be weak where 
she would be strong, she blinded herself to these, and went 
on : 

“If cooping me up as you do, and never letting me go 
anywhere, or see anyone, shows affection, you care for me 
a lot.” 

“A vice ! Avice !” 

“It’s true; and you know it.” 

“In what way do I ever interfere with your 
liberty?” 

“In every way.” 

“Give me an instance.” 

“What about to-night !” 

“That !” he cried contemptuously. 

“You know you’ve nothing to say; and so you try to 
make out it’s nothing.” 

“Is it nothing that Irma should be left by herself in this 
house ?” 

“There’s May!” 

“Can you trust her farther than you can see her?” 

“She’s competent.” 

“Anything but.” 

“You only say that ” 

“I haven’t forgotten, and I hoped you hadn’t, that I 
once met her with Irma in the rain; and she was holding 
the umbrella over her own head, and letting the child drag 
along in the gutter,” he interrupted, and with more than 
a touch of asperity in his voice. 

“She said Irma wouldn’t hurry, so she had to get her 
along the best way she could.” 

“ 'She said I’ Avice I Avice !” 

The justifiable reproach in his voice sent her off on an- 
other tack. 

“And that’s another thing I complain of ; you put Irma 


A BREEZE 


13 


before me. Yes, you do” (he would have spoken), ‘^and 
you know it. It’s always Irma; Irma; Irma; when you’re 
at home. How she is; what she says; and all the rest of 
it. And on the rare occasions you give up an evening to 
me, you fidget about her all the time.” 

*‘And why not?” he asked almost defiantly. 

‘‘Your wife should come first,” she replied doggedly. 

“I love you both,” he said simply. “Irma because she is 
ours: you, because you gave her to me.” 

“All very well ” 

“It’s true, Avice, and you know it in your heart.” 

“You put Irma first.” 

“Oh! Rot!” 

“I say, you put Irma first.” 

“It’s no good wrangling. I’ll be off.” 

“You shan’t go.” 

“What!” 

“Not until you promise to take me to-night.” 

“I’d be delighted to take you if it weren’t for Irma.” 

“That’s what I say: you put Irma first.” 

“And I should have thought you would do the same,” he 
retorted with sudden anger. 

The fact of her suspicions regarding his thinking more 
of the child than he did of his wife being strengthened, 
further unhinged her self-control. 

“I don’t put her before you, so I don’t see why you 
should put her before me; and I won’t have it,” she cried. 

“You know perfectly well ” 

“It’s no use trying to water it down: you said it, and 
there’s no getting away from it. Unless you take me to- 
night, I shall know it’s true ; and you must not be surprised 
at anything I do.” 

“Avice ! Avice !” 

“Don’t ‘Avice’ me.” 

“You’re so unreasonable.” 

“Women are always unreasonable if they differ from 
men. Are you going to take me or are you not?” 

“What?” he asked, and as though anxious to gain time 
for reflection. 

“You know what I said. Are you going to take me or 
are you not?” 


14 A PILLAR OF SALT 

Leonard thought for a moment before desperately 
saying : 

‘'Do you know what's wrong with women like you, who 
are never satisfied and always trying to get your own 
way ?” 

“Never mind others ” 

“But I do mind. What is wrong with you is that you 
have too indulgent husbands, and have much too good a 
time ; and having plenty of leisure on your hands, you have 
nothing better to do but to get discontented, and to find 
fault with your best friends." 

“But " 

“It's no question of 'buts': it's a fact. We men get so 
fond of our womenfolk that we give in to them far more 
than is good for them; and all we get for our pains is lack 
of consideration, and worse. Indulgent husbands make in- 
different wives." ^ 

She was taken aback by his vehemence, and might have 
been cowed into a more reasonable frame of mind, had 
not Irma, in passing the door on her way to school, called 
out: 

“Good-bye, darling daddy." 

“Good-bye, sweetheart." 

Leonard's changed expression at hearing his daughter's 
voice, together with his tender greeting, made Avice harden 
her heart. 

“Are you going to take me or are you not?" she asked 
in a low, even voice. 

“And leave little Irma to the care of a wooden-headed 
servant ?" 

“That's not the point." 

“It is the point." 

“I want to find out who comes first in your life.” 

“You know very well ” 

“That's no answer," she interrupted. “It's no use getting 
out of it. I mean to have an answer before you go.” 

“You're keeping me, and I shall be late." 

“You've often put off going for nothing at all, so you 
can surely stay for this." 

Leonard, who hated domestic jars, looked searchingly at 
his wife: seeing the determination in her face, he faltered 


A BREEZE 


15 

for a moment, and after gathering what courage he might, 
he blurted out : 

“Fm surprised at you, Avice. I did think you different 
from the rest/' 

“What do you mean?" she asked with disconcerting 
calmness. 

“I never pretended to know much about women, but I 
did think this much : that if a woman has a rotten hus- 
band, who did everything he oughtn’t to, she thinks him 
a hero, and sticks to him through thick and thin. I always 
hoped and believed you’d appreciate my loving you as 
I do.’’ 

“Where did you get that nonsense from?’’ 

“What nonsense?’’ 

“Thinking a woman loves a man the better because he’s 
a bad husband.’’ 

“Isn’t it true?’’ 

“Of course it isn’t.’’ 

“Of course it is. We’ve an instance under our very 
noses.’’ 

“Who?’’ she asked impatiently: she wanted to get back 
to the point. 

“Rene Sylvester. Although she does her pathetic best 
to keep her friends from finding out, we all know Sylvester 
drinks hard, and gives her a rotten time.’’ 

‘‘Well !'’ 

“Doesn’t she devote her life to him; trying to keep him 
straight ; and doing ‘all she knows’ to please him ?’’ 

“Rene Sylvester is only a ‘cow’ woman." 

“Only a what?" 

“A ‘cow’ woman." 

“What does that mean?" 

“A woman who’s no interest beyond husband and 
children." 

“She hasn’t any children." 

“She would be like that if she had any." 

“I think Mrs. Sylvester an admirable woman." 

“That’s right: throw her in my face." 

“I only say what I believe is the truth. She’s fond of 
her home; takes a pride in it; and takes pains to look her 
best." 


i6 A PILLAR OF SALT 

“What’s all that to do with what we were talking 
about ?” 

“I’m proving my point. If she were unattractive, there 
mightn’t be much virtue in what she does. But you know 
how she attracts men ” 

“Oh! Men. They’ll run after any woman with a good 
figure.” 

“You admit she has that!” 

“She’s much too stout.” 

Leonard laughed. 

“Anyway, very slim figures are all the fashion just 
now.” 

Leonard glanced quizzically at his wife, and said: 

“At least Mrs. Sylvester has a sense of humour.” 

This remark was like the proverbial red rag to a bull: 
nothing was more calculated to annoy Avice than to hint 
she was wanting in this respect. 

“Haven’t I ?” she cried. 

“I don’t see many signs of it this morning.” 

“If you think so much of Mrs. Sylvester, it’s a pity you 
didn’t marry her.” 

“Avice ! Avice !” 

“A nice thing to tell a wife to her face you as good as 
love another woman !” 

“Who did anything of the kind?” 

“You did.” 

“Avice !” 

“It’s no good looking reproachful: it won’t go down 
with me. Are you, or are you not, going to take me to the 
^Dudley’?” 

“But ” 

“Are you or are you not?” 

“I’m thinking of Irma.” 

“Answer.” 

Her peremptory manner raised an obstinacy within him 
which was alien to his disposition. 

“No,” he cried stoutly. 

And if he had expected anything dreadful to happen, he 
was mistaken : Avice looked blacker than ever ; and that 
was all. 

Her silence was an anti-climax to her previous resolu- 


A BREEZE 


17 


tion; taking advantage of the lull in the storm, Leonard, 
who, at heart, was dreadfully miserable, and already half 
repented of having thwarted his wife, left the room, and 
in a minute or two, the house. 

His point-blank refusal, his hasty departure, had all hap- 
pened with such unexpected suddenness that for some mo- 
ments Avice could not realise what had happened ; she soon 
recovered herself ; and if it had not been for the objections 
to a row in the street, she would have liked to have followed 
him and to have had it out with him. 

She was beside herself with rage, though not so much as 
now and again to gather her thoughts, and to devise some 
means of vexing her husband. 

And in her heart of hearts, she respected him for his 
unwonted firmness. 

It was in her mind to employ the time-old expedient of 
going off with Irma to her mother’s, and not leaving word 
to say where she was. 

She knew this unexplained absence would worry Leonard 
dreadfully, and was thinking what was the best excuse to 
make for her unexpected appeara«ce at her old home, till 
it occurred to her that, on the last occasion she had done 
such a thing, her stout old father had seen what she was at, 
and had told her *'not to be a damned fool.” 

^‘Men always stuck up for each other when it was a ques- 
tion of flouting a woman,” she reflected; and further won- 
dered what she might do to hurt her husband. 

More than once, the secret appeal Leonard’s steadfast- 
ness made to her stood him in good stead : she might have 
got reconciled to spending the evening at home had not what 
she considered to be his reflection on her deficiency of 
humour come into her mind : his praise of Rene Sylvester, 
and her smart appearance. 

Avice glanced at herself in the glass. 

She had certainly dressed carelessly : her hair could have 
done with more brushing; her blouse was not fresh; and she 
had not done up all the hooks. 

Leonard seemingly forgot that Rene Sylvester’s husband 
was well off ; that she had a maid all to herself ; and plenty 
of money to dress upon. 

Anyone could look smart with such advantages. 


i8 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


And he had apparently forgotten she had expected to 
go to the dance, and was reserving herself for the evening. 

Avice was torn between exasperation and an inclination 
to make the best of a bad job. 

She was thinking of attending to her household duties, 
when she heard someone run quickly up the steps, and the 
knock of a telegraph boy on the door. 

She took in the telegram herself : wondering what it 
might contain, she tore the envelope, and read as follows : 

“See if Mrs. Sylvester will take Irma for evening. Love. 
— Leonard.” 


CHAPTER II 


IRENE SYLVESTER 

Avice, with her quick woman’s intuition, saw that her 
husband was in the mood to come down from his high 
horse: with this realisation came a sharp gratification at 
having thus far prevailed ; and with it a lessening of esteem 
for Leonard. 

“He was fond of her, after all,” she told herself ; and, a 
little later, “I can do what I like with him.” 

With a light heart, Avice interviewed phlegmatic May 
downstairs ; and after dressing herself with more than ordi- 
nary care, she went out : when she had done some shopping, 
she would call on Mrs. Sylvester. 

The Dales lived in Eardley Crescent, Earl’s Court ; 
this was a semicircular stretch of road which wound from 
the neighbourhood of Brompton cemetery to Warwick 
Road. 

Avice hastened in the direction of the shops in the 
Earl’s Court Road; and passed on her way divers women 
of her acquaintance who were bound on the same errand 
as herself. 

She exchanged greetings with one or two of these; upon 
being asked if she were going to the “Dudley,” she replied, 
“Of course,” and as though a contrary supposition were 
out of the question. 

Avice ordered bones from the butcher for soup, 
and some best-end neck of mutton which would make 
cutlets; had words with the grocer about one of the 
customary overcharges in the book ; and bought her- 
self a pair of gloves, and some flowers for the dinner- 
table. 


19 


20 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


On going home with these last, she powdered her nose, 
and walked to Earl’s Court Square where Rene Sylvester 
lived. 

She met her friend on the steps of her house. 

'‘So glad to see you, dear,” said Mrs. Sylvester after the 
two women had kissed. “Won’t you come in?” 

“You’re going out?” 

“I was — but — but ” 

An expression of anxiety came over Rene Sylvester’s 
face, an expression with which her friends were all too 
familiar. 

“How is your husband ?” asked Avice. 

“Quite well, thank you.” 

“I’m glad. I feared ” 

“He’s quite well now. I was wondering if he would be 
well enough to go to the ‘Dudley’ this evening.” 

“You are going?” asked Avice in surprise, while her heart 
sank at the frustration of her hope that her friend would 
be able to look after Irma. 

“I thought something of the sort would do my husband 
good.” 

“Oh!” 

“I hope your husband is well,” pursued Rene. 

“Quite, thank you, but ” 

“But what, dear!” 

“Which way were you going? I’ll go with you, if I 
may.** 

“I was only going to do a little shopping.” 

“I shan’t be in the way !” 

“Of course not, dear. I’m only too glad to have someone 
with me.” 

The two women walked together ; and it was evident that 
each of them had something on her mind: Rene’s sweet 
face was clouded with anxiety ; while Avice was wondering 
how far the fact of her friend’s going to the dance would 
affect her plans. 

Perhaps, considering Captain Sylvester’s failing, Rene 
might not go after all. 

“I’d no idea you ever went to dances,” said Avice. 

“I’m very fond of dancing." 

“But you never go." 


IRENE SYLVESTER 21 

‘T love my home, and my husband doesn’t much care 
about going out.” 

“So sure was I you were not going to the ‘Dudley’ 
that I came round to ask you to take Irma for the even- 
ing.” 

“I should have been delighted: she would have cheered 
me up.” 

“And she’s so fond of you.” 

“Dear Irma! You are lucky to have her,” sighed 
Rene. 

“You’re very fond of children !” 

“I love them,” declared the other emphatically. 

“I was wondering if it* would be wise to leave her,” 
said A vice with a fine assumption of motherly considera- 
tion. 

“How do you usually manage?” 

“There’s her nurse whom I can thoroughly trust. But 
the wretched woman’s mother is dying, and so I have to let 
her go the evening I want to be free.” 

“Isn’t it sad!” 

“That sort of person has no business to be ill.” 

“A vice! I was thinking of the poor woman.” 

“Of course, it’s sad. Now I don’t know what to do.” 
“You’ve someone else in the house!” 

“May. Leonard seems to think she can’t be trusted.” 
“Then, of course, you won’t go !” 

“I’m thinking of my husband,” said Avice. 

“I didn’t know he was a dancing man.” 

“I’m afraid he’ll be dreadfully disappointed if I don’t 

go. 

“Why not let him go, and stay at home yourself ?” 

“Oh! He’d be miserable without me.” 

There was a silence; Avice glanced at her friend to see 
if any suggestion were forthcoming with regard to Irma: 
in spite of her good looks, she could not help admiring 
Rene. 

She was a woman of inches, but did not appear so on 
account of her full figure which was enhanced by her 
small waist, and little hands and feet: her pretty features 
would have given her a demure expression were it not for 
her roguish China-blue eyes: she was smartly and quietly 


22 


A PILLAR OF SALT 

turned out; and wore a hat that made the women they 
passed green with envy. 

Avice noticed that her friend attracted the gaze of nearly 
every man they encountered, irrespective of age. 

“How the men stare!” remarked Avice presently. 

“They’re looking at you, dear.” 

“It’s you they’re looking at.” 

“Bother the men I” exclaimed Rene as she stood irresolute 
on the pavement. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“I’m worrying about my husband.” 

“I thought you said he was quite well.” 

“So he is, but — but — ^would you mind if we went 
back?” 

“Of course not.” 

“He hasn’t been quite himself for some time : he suffers 
from his head : I want to keep him well for to-night.” 

Avice understood and said nothing: as they returned, she 
could not help noticing the worried expression on her 
friend’s face, and that Rene was hastening her steps. 

The latter’s hand trembled as she put the key in the 
lock of the front door; after entering the hall, Avice fol- 
lowed the other into a book-lined room at the back of the 
house. 

As on previous visits to her friend’s, Avice was struck 
by the atmosphere of orderly well-being: everything looked 
spick and span ; the brass and steel shone with a brightness 
which argued unremitting attention. 

Rene looked about the room as if expecting to find her 
husband ; he was not to be seen ; his wife was about to seek 
him when he entered the room. 

He was beginning to appear the wreck of what had been 
a soldierly looking man: he was fair, with watery brown 
eyes beneath which were dark circles : he was absentminded, 
and had an irritating habit of not completing sentences he 
commenced. 

His wife keenly scanned him while pretending to exam- 
ine the hat she had taken off; and in so doing revealed 
masses of sweet brown hair. 

“How are you now, darling ?” asked Rene. 

“All right. Thought you were going out.” 


IRENE SYLVESTER 


23 


*T’ve been out, and IVe brought back Mrs. Dale.” 

Hitherto, Sylvester had not seemed aware of the pres- 
ence of a third party : prompted by his wife, he pulled him- 
self together and greeted Avice. 

“Avice is going to the ‘Dudley’ dance to-night,” continued 
Rene. 

“Oh!” 

“So you will have at least one partner.” 

“Delighted if — if ” 

“Of course we’re going,” declared his wife who had per- 
ceived what was in his mind. “Do sit down, Avice : we see 
so little of you now.” 

“I saw you last week,” returned Avice. 

“That was only at Mrs. Norman Butson’s. I wish you 
and your husband would come in oftener. Friends looking 
in unexpectedly cheer up Reggie.” 

“We don’t go out very much,” said Avice, who, for all 
her tiffs with Leonard, had no intention of throwing him 
against a woman he admired ; and who, in being a 
model of wifely virtues, was a sort of standing reproach to 
her. 

“I understand.” 

“Do you?” asked Avice sharply: she had been taken off 
her guard. 

“What love-birds you are. Isn’t that so, Reggie?” 

Sylvester looked blankly at his wife. 

“Doesn’t everyone tell us how devoted Mr. and Mrs. 
Dale are to each other I” 

“I have — I have heard something of — of the ” 

“Of course, you have. And apart from yourselves, you’ve 
dear little Irma.” 

“We’re all absurdly fond of each other,” murmured 
Avice. 

“That’s where you’re so lucky in ‘hitting it off’ to- 
gether.” 

“Yes : we are lucky in that,” admitted Avice. 

“One hears such terrible stories of domestic differences. 
Personally, I can’t understand them. It seems to me that 
if a woman has a home and a husband they should be her 
first thought.” 

Avice assented with a nod of her head, and asked : 


24 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘What is the time?’' 

“You’re not thinking of going yet?” 

“It’s getting on.” 

“Why not stay to luncheon?” 

“I’ve Irma coming home from school.” 

“Bring her too.” 

“But ” 

“Please do, dear Avice : you’ve no idea how we 
love to have children in the house. We won’t hear 
of your saying ‘no,’ so go and telMhem at home you’ll 
be out to luncheon, and bring Irma back as soon as you 
can.” 

Avice did not take much persuading: there was cold 
meat at home which she did not fancy; over and beyond 
the fact that she would have a better luncheon at her 
friend’s, there was the ever present likelihood of Captain 
Sylvester suffering from one of his “attacks,” and being 
prevented from going to the dance, in which event, the 
problem of knowing what to do with Irma would be 
solved. 

During the few minutes it took Avice to get home she 
searched her mind for anyone with whom Irma might stay 
for the evening: but everyone she knew well enough to 
ask was either going to the “Dudley” or somewhere else; 
and the one or two people who would probably be at home 
she did not care about approaching on the matter. 

She came to the conclusion it must be the Sylvesters or 
no one : and if things turned out so that they could not take 
her, she had not decided what she should do. 

But at the back of her mind she was determined that, 
since her husband had shown signs of yielding, she would 
have no compunction in insisting on having her own way. 

She found Irma home from school, and calling over the 
house for her mother: Avice helped her to change into a 
smarter frock; countermanded the arrangements for lunch- 
eon ; and walked with Irma to the Sylvesters’. 

Irma was in high feather at the prospect of going out 
to luncheon: she loved Rene, who always made an absurd 
fuss of her, and had told the child to call her “Auntie 
Rene”; and Captain Sylvester, if not suffering from one 
of his “attacks,” would play with her by the hour. 


IRENE SYLVESTER 


25 

Avice perceived the child’s glee, and told herself that the 
fact of Irma having this treat justified her mother in leaving 
her for the evening. 

On the face of it, the luncheon was rather a dismal busi- 
ness : there was no intoxicant on the table or sideboard ; its 
absence did not further the good temper of the master of 
the house : the presence of guests alone prevented him from 
insisting on having what he wanted. 

The anxiety his wife exhibited so that her husband should 
not be exasperated into leaving the table, and perhaps the 
house, was pitiful to behold. 

Somehow, Avice had no sympathy for her friend’s trou- 
bles to-day; if the truth be told, she would not have been 
shocked if Captain Sylvester had shown symptoms of a bad 
‘'attack” ; this would have meant that there would have been 
no dance for him and consequently his wife would have 
been able to take Irma. 

“I can’t make out what’s wrong with my husband,” 
said Rene when the two women were presently alone in 
her bedroom, where Irma, who had her mother’s permission 
not to attend afternoon school, was amusing herself in 
turning out drawers accessible to her slender tale of inches, 
and with a fine disregard of their contents ; or the big ward- 
robe, which contained many evening dresses, and divers 
coloured pairs of evening shoes, in each of which were 
folded silk stockings to match. 

“I’ve had doctors, but none of them seem able to do any- 
thing for him. They can only put it down to a touch of 
sunstroke he had in India.” 

Avice concealed a yawn: she had heard these excuses 
a thousand times before; was blind to the loyalty that 
prompted them; and had something akin to contempt for 
Rene’s devotion to her husband. 

“The only one who can do anything with him is myself. 
That is why I rarely leave him.” 

“Do you think he will be well enough to go this even- 
ing?” asked Avice: the excellent luncheon she had eaten 
had made her more disposed than ever to get her own 
way. 

“I hope so,” returned Rene. Then, after a pause, — 

“Would you mind if I left you for a moment to see 


26 PILLAR OF SALT 

how Reggie is? I want him to lie down and have a little 
sleep/' 

Rene was out of the room almost before Avice could 
reply ; the latter disregarded Irma’s incessant questions 
with regard to what this was and what that was, and 
looked about her at the tasteful, if not luxurious, bed- 
room. 

The windows were hung with blue silk curtains : there 
was a vere rose coverlet on the bed; and big cushions of 
the same colour here, there, and everywhere. 

“Well !” asked Avice on Rene’s return. 

“He was fidgeting about the house; but I’ve persuaded 
him to lie down.” 

“What are these. Aunt Rene?” asked Irma, who had 
pulled some dozen big blue and pink silk bows from a 
drawer. 

“My bows.” 

“But what are they for, Auntie Rene?” 

“I wear one in my hair at night.” 

“At night!” queried the child with wondering eyes. 

“One should always make oneself look as nice as one 
can. 

“Mumsie doesn’t wear bows at night.” 

“Not!” 

“Never. Do you, mumsie?” 

“Your mother’s pretty enough without anything of that 
sort,” said Rene. 

Avice smiled wryly: whether or no her friend meant 
what she said, the pains Rene took to make herself attrac- 
tive at all seasons were in the nature of a reflection upon 
one who had got out of the way of making the best of 
herself at home unless friends were expected : but she speed- 
ily recovered her self-esteem by reflecting it was only a 
fool who would thus go out of her way to make herself 
alluring to her husband. 

“What’s this. Auntie Rene?” cried Irma, who had come 
upon something solid wrapped in white tissue paper. 

“A dolly, dear.” 

“A dolly! What for?” 

“A little friend of mine who can play with her while her 
mother and father are out to-night.” 


IRENE SYLVESTER 


27 


“But father isn’t out 

Irma got no further; her delight at having the doll was 
such as to make her forgetful of everything beyond the 
gift and the giver : with a cry of “Oh ! Auntie Rene !” she 
flew to her friend’s arms, and was demonstrative of her 
gratitude. 

“How lovely you smell,” said Irma presently to Mrs. 
Sylvester on whose knee she was sitting while she was 
dressing and undressing her doll. 

“Do I, dear?” 

“You always do.” 

“Scent,” said Avice. 

“No,” from her friend. 

“It must be.” 

“I never have any in the house.” 

“What is it then?” 

“I suppose it’s natural to me.” 

“Mumsie doesn’t smell like that,” cried Irma with the 
candour of childhood. 

“I think it’s time we went back,” said Avice. 

“Please, mumsie, not yet.” 

“There’s a lot to see to; and then I have to dress.” 

“Dress!” cried Irma in wonderment. 

“We’re going out to-night, dear.” 

“But daddie said ” 

“Play with your dolly, dear. I want to talk to Auntie 
Rene.” 

During the half-hour longer which she stayed, Avice 
sought reasons to support her resolve to attend the dance : 
and discovered that, since a wife who was a homebird, 
and admitted she lived for her husband, wanted to go, she, 
Avice, who loathed domesticity, and whose husband pro- 
fessed always to consider her, had every right to insist on 
being taken. 

The friends parted in expectation of meeting in the even- 
ing, whereat Irma, who was hugging her dolly, looked up 
at her mother with wondering eyes. 

“Are you going out this evening, mumsie?” asked Irma, 
directly mother and daughter were alone. 

“I — I think so, dear.” 

“Is daddie going, too?” 


28 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘‘I think so/^ 

mumsie 

''Don’t speak for a moment: Pm thinking of some- 
thing. And come this way: I want to buy you a picture- 
book.” 

The child was nothing loth: after they had come out of 
the shop, and while Irma was believing her good fortune 
too wonderful to be true, her mother said: 

“Now I want you to listen carefully to what I have to 
say.” 

“Yes, mumsie. But can’t I undo my book?” 

“Not till we get home. And not then unless you listen 
and promise to do what I ask.” 

Irma did her best (it was not much of a success) to 
divert her mind from the doll and the parcel to her 
mother. 

“You know you’d do anything to please daddie!” 

“Yes, mum,” came from the child’s lips with a prompt- 
ness that displeased Avice. 

“Daddy’s very anxious to take me out to-night.” 

Irma’s face, which had been wreathed in smiles and 
laughter, fell. 

“The only thing that keeps him back is not wanting 
you to be alone with May. And I want you, dear” (Avice 
spoke rather hurriedly just here), “to say, if he says any- 
thing to you, that you want him to go, and will be quite 
happy with her.” 

“That wouldn’t be true, mum.” 

“Yes, it would.” 

“But ” 

“Because a good little girl like you should be only too 
pleased to deny herself to give a good daddy pleasure.” 

Whether or no Irma was capable of appreciating this 
subtlety, she was silent on the rest of the way home. 

“Don’t forget, dear, what I said to you,” admonished 
Avice as they went up the steps of the house. “And if 
you’re good and don’t complain. I’ll buy you some sweeties 
to-morrow.” 

If Avice had had more leisure, she might have regretted 
her underhand behaviour in enlisting the child’s support for 
her design: but she was shorthanded, and there was a lot 


IRENE SYLVESTER 


29 

to do if dinner were to be ready at the usual hour: and 
she had to dress. 

Avice disliked domestic work ; it went against the grain : 
to-night, with apprehensions of a further row with Leon- 
ard, and with the sulky assistance of May, who v/as put out 
at having so much to do, it was hateful. 

She worked with a will, however ; she wanted all the time 
she could snatch to prepare for the “Dudley.” 

Avice was doing her hair before the glass (her evening 
frock was spread out on the bed) when she heard her hus- 
band’s key in the lock : it was some minutes before he came 
upstairs (apparently, he was seeking her below) and into 
their bedroom. 

Avice did not speak or look round, her mouth was full 
of hairpins; but she could see in the glass how careworn 
he looked. 

“Dressing?” he remarked. 

Avice nodded. 

“You got my ‘wire’ ?” 

Avice nodded again. 

“Then Mrs. Sylvester can take Irma?” 

“Haven’t you seen Irma?” 

“Of course.” 

“Didn’t you question her? You always 
me!” 

“I didn’t like to drag her into it.” 

“Rene is going to the ‘Dudley’ herself.” 

“What!” sharply from Leonard. 

“I’ve spoken to Irma: she doesn’t mind 
May one bit. It’s perfectly ridiculous the 
over the child.” 

“But, Avice ” he began in a more mollified voice. 

Avice was quick to seize her opportunity. 

“If you don’t believe me, ask the child yourself,” she 
cried irritably. 

“I tell you I don’t want to drag her into these rows. 
It’s quite bad enough hearing them as she sometimes 
does.” 

“I don’t suppose she listens,” remarked Avice lamely. 

“Why don^t you go yourself?” asked Leo»erd after 
a sitencfe. 


put her before 


being left with 
fuss you make 


30 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


"‘And leave you at home?” 

'‘I don’t care a hang about dancing.” 

^T want you to go. It’s a husband’s place to take his 
wife out.” 

^‘You have plenty of friends.” 

^‘Either I go with you or I don’t go at all!” cried 
Avice. 

'T’d be delighted to take you. It’s Irma: I should be 
miserable at thinking she was alone.” 

‘T tell you she doesn’t mind. If you don’t be- 
lieve ” 

Avice stopped short; she had been looking in the glass 
while speaking, and now caught sight of Irma who had 
come noiselessly into the room in order to surprise her 
father. 

''Well!” from Leonard. 

Avice took the bull by the horns. 

"There she is : ask her yourself.” 

"Would you mind, darling, being left alone with May 
if mumsie and I go out?” asked Leonard of Irma. 

Irma looked with wondering eyes from her mother, who 
had turned to gaze fixedly at the child, to her father. 

"Well, dear !” said Leonard, on getting no reply. 

"You know well enough what you told me when we were 
out!” sharply remarked her mother. 

"Yes, mumsie.” 

"You said you didn’t mind being left alone at all : didn’t 
you? Didn’t you, Irma?” 

"Y-yes, mumsie.” 

"There you are. What did I tell you?” cried Avice to 
her husband: and then to the child: "Go downstairs and 
fetch your new dolly to show to daddy.” 

"I have shown it.” 

"Your picture-book, then. Be quick. I want to speak 
to your father.” 

"Are you satisfied now?” asked Avice of Leonard after 
Irma had left the room. 

"I don’t know what to think,” returned Leonard, who 
was still unconvinced. 

"You’re surely not going to let me dress for nothing !” 

-But ” 


31 


IRENE SYLVESTER 

‘‘And make me look a fool before the Sylvesters!” 

“How?” 

“I told them we were going. And Rene wants to 
dance with you: and Eve promised to dance with Captain 
Sylvester.” 

“I dislike your assuming I would go without anything 
being done for Irma.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Starting to dress as though there were no objections.” 

“It’s all your fault if I have,” she declared defiantly. 

“How do you mean?” 

“In sending that ‘wire.’ ” 

“I was so upset about it all.” 

“If you hadn’t sent it, I shouldn’t have expected to go. 
You’re not going to be such a beast as to spoil my pleasure 
now 1” 

“You always get your own way,” sighed Leonard. 


CHAPTER III 


earl's court, s.w. 

Directly Avice got her own way, she was another woman : 
no longer was she short-tempered and irritable; but de- 
lighted with herself ; her husband ; and everything else. 

Leonard was a perfect dear, and as she told him, almost 
deserved the kisses she gave him ; Irma was the sweetest 
darling in the world of whom her mother would be thinking 
the whole time she was out. 

As for Leonard, he, good man, appreciated the change 
in his wife’s mood from storm to sunshine as well as he 
might in face of misgivings that were by no means allayed ; 
and by the knowledge, of which he was dimly aware, that 
somehow or another easy-going husbands lay up liabilities 
for the future for the peace they secure from giving in to 
their wives. 

Avice completed her toilette with deft fingers : she made 
a radiant figure as she faced her husband at one end of the 
dining-table. 

^‘We must be quick, dear,” she said as soon as May had 
put the soup on the table. 

^‘There’s plenty of time,” rejoined her husband ab- 
sently. 

^'You have to dress.” 

‘‘That won’t take twenty minutes.” 

“But we must get there in good time to get our pro- 
grammes full.” 

“I don’t much care if I don’t get a dance.” 

“What about me!” 

“You’re not usually a wallflower.” 

“I feel I’m going to be one to-night.” 

32 


EARLES COURT, S.W. 33 

'Tf you danced every dance you’d be sure to find fault,” 
remarked Leonard, and none too graciously. 

He regretted his complaisance, and was annoyed with his 
wife for the weakness he had exhibited. 

Avice, who was sensitiveness itself, was hurt by his 
reply ; she looked forward to a happy evening ; and wished 
everyone else to be happy ; not, perhaps, from consideration 
for them, but because she did not want to be jarred by 
dismal faces. 

She made one or two further remarks about who was 
likely to be at the dance; the curt replies she received dis- 
couraged her from saying any more. 

There was a silence until Avice talked to Irma, who, as 
a treat, was allowed to sit up to dinner: the child, whose 
eyes rarely left her father’s face, seemed infected with his 
mood : she barely replied to her mother’s remarks. 

Avice indulged in an orgy of selfish thought. 

She was glad she had got her own way : if her husband 
had a frumpish dislike of taking her to dances, he should 
not have married an attractive wife; since he had done so, 
he must put up with the consequences : as for Irma, she 
was made too much of ; as a child, she (Avice) had never 
been fussed over; and it was notorious that an only child 
was invariably spoiled to its ultimate undoing : a dull even- 
ing would do her good. 

While Avice was nursing these thoughts, her husband’s 
reserve thawed; this was either the result of resolving to 
make the best of a bad job, or (this was more probable) 
food had put him in a better humour. 

He talked genially to his wife; it was now her turn to 
be unresponsive, so he turned his attention to Irma. 

But the child had lost her usual high spirits : every time 
her father addressed her, she looked at her mother with 
almost apprehensive eyes before replying, and then with 
“Yeses” and “Noes.” 

Her reserve turned her father’s thoughts to the matter 
of leaving her with May. 

“Sure you don’t mind being left alone, darling !” 

“No,” replied Irma, and looking at the table-cloth. 

“Because, if you really did ” 

“We’ve been into all that before,” interposed Avice. 


34 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


“Because if you really did 

“I don’t mind at all, darling daddie. I want you to go 
out and be happy at your party.” 

After saying this, Irma glanced at her mother as though 
to ask if she had done right. 

“That settles it, then,” said Leonard. “But I wish Annie 
weren’t away.” 

Leonard made further efforts to be amiable to his wife : 
now there was no doubt of her going to the “Dudley,” she 
was not in the mood she would have believed over-night 
she would have been in, if she could have been certain of 
getting her own way. 

She told herself she really did not want to go at all. 

It was not worth making such a fuss over a mere sub- 
scription “hop” where she would meet and dance with the 
typical young man from Earl’s Court, whose dancing was 
as dull as his conversation. 

And for the sake of being bored, she had quarrelled 
with her husband, and was condemning Irma to a cheerless 
evening. 

Irma was a darling; she had denied herself to do her 
mother a good turn; for two pins, Avice would delight 
them both by refusing to go. 

She was serious about this; it was a reaction from her 
recent selfishness : she glanced tenderly at Irma in order to 
win encouragement for the resolve she had in mind. 

Rather to her surprise, Irma’s eyes were fixed steadfastly 
upon her; and with a disconcerting expression. 

It was an expression alien to Avice’s experience; try as 
she might, she could not fathom what it meant. 

Annoyed by the persistence with which Irma gazed at 
her, she plied the child with questions on matters likely to 
interest her ; Irma replied readily enough, but it was evident 
she had something on her mind. 

The expression haunted Avice during the rest of the 
meal, and while her husband was making ready upstairs: 
it awoke dim memories of her own childhood; and since 
she could not get to the bottom of what Irma was think- 
ing, she set about trying to make these sharper in order to 
see if they would furnish some sort of explanation. 

She almost made her head ache in seeking to recall what 


EARL’S COURT, S.W. 35 

she wanted, although she believed it had been of moment 
at the time. 

Just as she was giving up the attempt, the clouds that 
had dimmed her memory cleared away : she saw that which 
had hitherto been hid. 

She was again a little girl of about Irma’s age; and was 
sitting at home with her bullied mother for whom she had 
had a consummate respect. 

Her mother had broken her husband’s favourite pipe; 
and upon his questioning her about it, she had lied. 

Avice had been brought up to believe a lie the most un- 
forgivable of sins : forthwith had arrived the inevitable 
moment in an intelligent child’s life when she had criticized 
her parent in the light of her paltry experience. 

She, in the long ago, had looked with strange, wondering 
eyes at her mother, much as Irma now regarded her in her 
turn : from that day Avice had suffered a diminished respect 
for her mother: try as she could to root the sentiment from 
her heart, there had been no making headway against it. 

The suspicion, if not the knowledge, that she had fallen 
in Irma’s estimation rankled in her mind: she foresaw the 
long hours during which Irma would put her mother in 
the balance and find her wanting, even as Avice had done 
in the long ago : she did not want this to be ; and wondered 
what she could do to avert it. 

There was only one way, she told herself : this to acknowl- 
edge she was in the wrong; give up the dance; and spend 
the evening with Irma and Leonard. 

The words were on her lips when Leonard came down- 
stairs to ask his wife to tie his tie ; but they were not spoken : 
pride withheld them ; the pride that would not permit her to 
humble herself before her husband. 

She made further efforts to speak: when her husband 
was getting into an overcoat; during the long farewells to 
Irma, who bravely kept back her tears; the injunctions to 
May not on any account to neglect the child: even after it 
had been discovered the cab whistle had been mislaid; and 
husband and wife were standing in the doorway on the 
lookout for a cab. 

'‘Mind you both eujoy yourselves,” cried little Irma from 
the background. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


36 

Avice would assuredly have spoken then, had not the 
Instrument of her Fate in the shape of a crawling hansom 
sealed her lips. 

The cabby had wished to drive along the Richmond Road, 
and had turned into Eardley Crescent because his mare had 
been frightened by a boy pushing a milk-churn; and had 
swerved in that direction. 

The boy would not have been there just then had he not 
stopped to look for a penny he had heard fall : this had 
slipped through a hole in a workman’s pocket made by a 
file he had absent-mindedly put there. 

The sequence of causes could be indefinitely extended: 
whatsoever they were, they were responsible, not only for 
Avice getting into the cab without speaking, but for the 
events that ensued from her going to the dance. 

Before we go any further, a few particulars of Avice’s 
environment, and her relations thereto, may be of service. 

Earl’s Court, in which the Dales were more or less promi- 
nent social figures, was in those days (it is nowadays pretty 
well all lodging and boarding houses) regarded by the in- 
habitants, who thought themselves of Consequence, as the 
last outpost of Society; as the spear-head of Blood which 
defied the freed-men and women of West Kensington; the 
barbarians of the wilds of Fulham and Hammersmith. 

They were chiefly the better-paid civil servants ; 
smallish professional men ; reduced ‘^Has Beens” ; and 
ambitious Nobodies who were passionately eager to be 
Somebodies. 

There was a military contingent which mostly consisted 
of veterans who had spilled a lot of ink during their years 
of service in the Army Pay Department ; or who had added 
to their physical circumference by serving in what was con- 
temptuously called the ^'Butchers” by the one or two retired 
officers of marching regiments, who had pitched their tents 
in Earl’s Court. 

Whosoever or whatsoever they were, local Society was 
divided into two camps, the Church set, and the nakedly 
social. 

The Church set revolved about “St. Cuthbert’s,” where 
the services were very high (to go to St. Matthias where 
the ceremony was not so ritualistic was considered bad 


EARL’S COURT, S.W. 37 

form) ; and the men were separated from the women, men 
who, Avice noticed, had abnormal heads. 

Frankly confessed Society had for its Mecca a down-at- 
heel baronet. Sir George Cavill : he was of long lineage ; 
decayed estate; and weak in the head: he had married a 
pushful, upstart woman, who did not scruple to let her 
friends and acquaintances be continually aware of her Rank : 
a Debrett, in which a turned-down and well-thumbed page, 
on which were her own and her husband’s name, was a con- 
spicuous feature in her tiny drawing-room. 

They gave whist parties twice a week at which husband 
and wife were invariably partners; and as they played for 
money, this idiosyncrasy, which usually resulted in their 
winning, was overlooked on the score that it was worth 
while being a bit out of pocket in order to rub shoulders 
with a baronet and his lady. 

This running after the Cavills helped to sustain the 
somewhat down-at-heel belief that money was no passport 
to local social consideration ; and that “Blood” alone 
told. 

Even as the wives (of course, there were exceptions) 
did a lot with their husbands’ hard-earned incomes, so did 
anyone and everyone (there were no exceptions here) 
work wonders with the least suggestion of aristocrat con- 
nections, however exigent these might be. 

A fifth cousinship with a title went a deuce of a way; 
and was paraded on all conceivable occasions : the sons and 
daughters of the house were baptised with pretentious Chris- 
tian names which advertised the Connection : and these sons 
and daughters, with their super-refined voices ; their affected 
ignorance of less happier (economically) conditions of life; 
and the conscientious way in which they bowed the knee 
to the shibboleth of Family did their utmost to further the 
atmosphere of “Blood.” 

It was a point of honour, and one religiously observed, 
always to couple the high-sounding Christian name with 
the surname if speaking of a friend or acquaintance. 

There was not much done in the way of entertaining, 
salaries and half-pay did not run to that; beyond an 
infrequent dinner, Earl’s Court received friends and 
acquaintances either at afternoon “At Homes,” or at 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


38 

Musical Evenings, the hour for which last was fixed well 
after the time it was presumed fashionable Earl’s Court 
dines. 

And for these afternoon “At Homes,” those who could 
afford it chartered a brougham from a neighbouring job- 
master, a brougham that was driven by a man who could 
almost be mistaken for the real thing. 

The charge was half a guinea : with civil service cockade 
twelve and sixpence; and naval or military cockade (this 
last was invariably affected by those who could run to it 
on the strength of a distant cousin who was in one of the 
combatant services) fifteen shillings. 

It was a point of honour, and one loyally observed, to 
assume that, while the brougham was engaged by a given 
lady, it was her exclusive property. 

It was in the late spring, and early summer that the sons 
and daughters of Earl’s Court were most in evidence. 

The exhibition was a few minutes away; a season ticket 
could be obtained for half a guinea; and any fine evening 
a procession of local young men and maidens, who looked 
a trifle self-conscious in the evening clothes (the shirts of 
the young men were clean twice a week) they mostly af- 
fected, could be seen wending its way about the band- 
stands. 

A favoured few, these invariably in evening dress, lolled 
in the front row of chairs in the select seclusion of the 
“Welcome Club.” 

The evening dress was an advertisement of the dressing 
for dinner habit. 

August was a close time for local Society: those who 
could not get away kept indoors so far as they could; 
should they meet friends and acquaintances when out and 
about, long-winded cock-and-bull explanations were ex- 
changed with regard to why they were not severally out 
of town. 

During the winter months, apart from the afore-men- 
tioned “At Homes,” there was a good deal of dancing; but 
as the size of the drawing-rooms and the means of their 
occupiers did not admit of the giving of balls and “Cinder- 
ellas,” recourse was had to subscription dances of which the 
“Dudley” was the most favoured. 


EARUS COURT, S.W. 39 

These were financed by a retired naval pay-master, and 
the four-shilling ticket (seven shillings double) included 
the lightest of light refreshments. 

A reduction was made for the season; and of this EarFs 
Court with marriageable daughters hastened to avail 
itself. 

Although anyone at all presentable could buy a ticket, 
or pay for admission at the doors, it was consistently taken 
for granted that it was something of a privilege to be 
present. 

But whatsoever the extent of these harmless assump- 
tions of social superiority, there was one matter on which 
every man, woman, and child, who had the remotest 
claim to ‘‘Blood,’^ daily, if not hourly, congratulated them- 
selves. 

This, that they did not live on the other side of the 

PARK. 

Sharp children of Earl's Court, who were introduced to 
those who hailed from Bayswater, or thereabouts, had a 
conviction of superiority on the spot; which all but made 
them expect to find physical symptoms of the others’ fall 
from Social grace. 

Avice came from the ‘^other side of the Park,” a fact of 
which she was reminded by her dearest friends with un- 
necessary insistence. 

She had been born and brought up on the confines of 
Maida Vale with a sour elder sister, and a handsome devil- 
may-care brother (he was the eldest), who was in practice 
as a solicitor. 

Avice’s unusually striking appearance would have at- 
tracted a- lot of eligible men to the house had they not been 
daunted by the behaviour of her sister Margaret who, not 
being in request herself, took a savage pleasure in being 
rude to Avice’s possible suitors. 

Avice had met her husband that was to be when walking 
in Westbourne Grove: it had been a case of love at first 
sight with him: he had followed her home in order to see 
where she lived; had turned up her name in the direc- 
tory; had haunted the neighbourhood of the house in his 
spare time; and had not rested until he had obtained the 
orthodox introduction. 


40 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


Avice, who had never been in love in her life, was, of 
course, aware of the passion she had inspired : she liked 
him very very much, and was quite fond of him when he 
was not with her : somehow, his presence produced a sense 
of disappointment. 

Notwithstanding this, she believed she was always 
about to give him her heart; even if she did not love him 
now, there was no doubt that love would come with mar- 
riage. 

Anyway, she cared for him enough to crumple up Mar- 
garet, and to soften the opposition of her stern old father, 
who loved his pretty daughter in his grim way, and did not 
want to lose her just yet. 

Avice’s mother did not count at all. 

And as things went even in those comparatively less 
strenuous days, Leonard Dale was not such a bad match. 

He was a gentleman by birth ; had been to Sherborne and 
Cambridge; and his aptitude for passing examinations 
promised some sort of fairly remunerative career. 

He could have got into the Indian Civil; fearing the 
effects of the Indian climate, he had passed into the First 
Division of the Civil Service; and was employed at Som- 
erset House. 

Avice had now been a wife eight years ; the whole of that 
time she had lived at the house in Eardley Crescent her 
husband had taken at their marriage. 

Until recently, she had not had to bother herself over- 
much about housekeeping, for which she had a distaste ; her 
home had been efficiently managed by an old servant of her 
husband’s family: this worthy woman had been devoted to 
her master; and it had been a blow to him when she had 
died almost suddenly during a holiday he had persuaded 
her to take on account of failing health. 

Owing to this woman’s competency, Avice had had a 
lot of time on her hands; this may have been why she 
was not happy. 

For there was no getting away from the fact that Avice 
was not satisfied with her lot. 

Love for her husband, the wild, unreasoning passion, she 
had read so much about in divers novels, which thinks any 
sacrifice for the loved one as of no account, had not come 


EARL’S COURT, S.W. 41 

her way ; and so far as she could see was not likely to now, 
or in the future. 

Leonard had been mildly ardent on their month’s honey- 
moon; after, his passion had seemed to die down: he was 
not less attentive or less considerate for her welfare, but 
the lover had cooled into the hubby, a type of man warm- 
blooded Avice had hitherto regarded with something akin 
to contempt. 

She had been trying to get her mental bearings when a 
bolt from the blue had fallen: she had realised that a little 
one was journeying to her. 

Avice had hotly resented the consequent alteration in her 
looks ; the care it had been necessary to take of her health ; 
the present and prospective curtailment of her free- 
dom. 

Her only consolation had been the hope that the advent 
of a child must surely awaken love for her husband in her 
heart. 

Here again, she met with disappointment. 

Directly Irma was born, Leonard had appeared to think 
of nothing else in the world beyond his little girl, whom 
he loved with an almost pathetic love. 

His first thought on waking was for the child’s well- 
being; directly he was home from the office, he would per- 
functorily kiss his wife, and rush upstairs to the nursery, 
and ply the nurse with a thousand and one questions about 
the baby’s health. 

Henceforth, Avice often found herself alone of an even- 
ing; on going upstairs, she would find Leonard sitting by 
the cot, where he would have spent long hours had not his 
wife objected. 

Doubtless such fatherly love was very worthy, and all 
that sort of thing, but it made no appeal to Avice. 

Yet, she knew well enough that, on the occasions she 
had sought to discover if Leonard’s apparently tender 
friendship for her concealed a warmer feeling, she had 
been surprised at the deeps of emotion which had been 
revealed to her ken. 

But the knowledge that the love was there was not 
enough for Avice. 

She wanted to be loved desperately; blindly: she would 


42 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


have liked to have been told a hundred times a day she 
was all the world, and a bit more, to her husband ; that with- 
out her, life to him would be barren: then, and then only 
should he stand a chance of winning her heart. 

But the words were never spoken; his ardours did not 
revive: it was Irma, Irma, Irma, all the time he was at 
home. 

And with the injustice native to her sex, she passed by 
the priceless love he bore her; and told herself that, as he 
did not go out of his way to make an absurd fuss of her, he 
had wearied of her if he had ever cared for her; and was a 
unit in the noble army of British husbands who marry to 
obtain the comforts of a home. 

For some time now, A vice had taken to neglecting her 
appearance: she no longer planned and contrived to make 
herself attractive to her husband. 

^What was the use of taking trouble with oneself for a 
man who would not notice if one dressed in a sack!” she 
asked herself. 

Avice had sought to busy her mind with Irma; here 
again, ill-luck pursued her. 

The child’s devotion to her father awoke her engrained 
jealousy; and disheartened her attempt to obtain this par- 
ticular solace. 

The result was that Avice had too much time on her 
hands: her distaste for the domestic round prevented her 
from doing more than was necessary to keep things on the 
move. 

She had not the spending of money to lessen her bore- 
dom; and usually did not care overmuch for the social 
distractions within reach: the fact of its being frequently 
dinned in her ears that she came from the “other side of 
the Park” had half convinced her she suffered, some social 
disability; and this further disinclined her to attend the 
“At Homes” and “Musical Evenings” where friends and 
acquaintances foregathered. 

It was infrequently, as now, that she wanted to go out 
before anything else in the world: she was passionately 
fond of dancing; once she had set her mind on a thing, it 
was a hard matter to divert her from her purpose. 

Thus it had come about that Avice, neglecting interests 


EARUS COURT, S.W. 43 

necessary to her health, sat at home and did the worst 
thing she could have done : she brooded ; and brooded ; and 
brooded : and in the manner of women who do such things, 
mountains became mole-hills; mole-hills, mountains; black, 
white; and white, any colour of the rainbow. 

She convinced herself in a way she could not have ex- 
plained if she had tried that she was a hardly-done-by 
woman; that she had a grievance against her husband and 
everything else; that she would be justified in doing any- 
thing (this was a nebulous anything) to get what she called 
“some of her own back.’’ 

Perhaps this mental awriness was assisted by her lack 
of humour; and by the fact of her breathing the atmos- 
phere of feminine unrest which, at the time of which we 
write, was apparently beginning to pervade the so-called 
civilised world. 

If she had been asked what she wanted to make her 
happy, she could not have given a definite reply. 

Sometimes, when she had the sense to take herself seri- 
ously to task, and tried to find out what was amiss, she half 
admitted that the desire of her heart was to be loved pas- 
sionately, yet purely, for herself ; and with a love that would 
never wane. 

She was not unusually vain, and took at its value the 
discreet admiration she received from the male of her 
species. 

This, she was certain, was merely for her physical attrac- 
tions; and, therefore, did not please her at all. 

No. What she wanted was that someone would really 
appreciate the elusive something within her; the some- 
thing that was best in her; the something above price 
which was there to bestow on an indefinite someone; the 
giving of which would put her in touch with Things 
Unseen. 

But nothing of the sort was forthcoming; was not in the 
least likely in the humdrum of her days: and all she had 
to look forward to was “slopping along” (her expression) 
and hoping against hope for something to turn up. 

Leonard and his a&ction were taken as a matter of 
course ; Irma cared for her father more than she did for her 
mother : life was too flat and colourless for words. 


44 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


And again, and again, she cried from her heart: If 
something would only happen! If something out of the 
common would only come my way! 

She did not know that the gods sometimes punish mortals 
by giving them their desires. 

Meantime, the cab containing Avice and Leonard was 
speeding in the direction of the “Empress Rooms.^' 


CHAPTER IV 


THE “dUDLEy’’ 

Avice, who had made up her mind to enjoy the dance, and 
let past and future take care of itself, entered the ballroom 
with a light heart. 

And as though to remind her that resolution and fulfil- 
ment ar« not one, the first thing that caught her eye was 
the lugubrious face of Mr. Morse. 

He was a man in the middle sixties; eighteen months 
back, after being a widower for ten years, he had taken to 
wife a comely young woman : she was immoderately fond 
of going out and about, and dragged her husband from 
the fireside and slippers he loved to the dissipations her 
heart ached for : she attracted a lot of masculine attention ; 
and for those who had understanding eyes, it was a pitiful 
sight to see Morse leaning solitary against a wall, watch- 
ing his wife rapturously waltzing in the arms of some 
Earl’s Court Blood; or the centre of a group of admiring 
men. 

Husbands mated to frumps said it served him right: 
this did not alter the fact that Morse’s melancholy presence 
at a festivity suggested the Egyptian mummy at the feast; 
and as such gave something of a setback to A vice’s high 
spirits. 

The next thing she noticed was that others beside her- 
self had taken time by the forelock, and for the same reason 
as she had done: the room was already half full; others 
were constantly arriving. 

Avice, escorted by her husband, who looked clean and 
nice in his evening clothes, took a chair not far from the 
principal doorway; hardly was she seated when a familiar 
voice said in her ear: 


45 


PILLAR OF SALT 


46 

'T’m so glad you’ve come early, dear.” 

“You’ve got here then!” returned Avice to Rene, and 
none too cordially: she was piqued by the fine appearance 
her friend made in a Parisian evening frock, which easily 
eclipsed any other gown in the room ; and at perceiving that 
many of the men were eyeing Mrs. Sylvester. 

“Reggie didn’t think he would be well enough to come; 
but I persuaded him at the last moment.” 

Avice glanced at Reggie, who was sitting by his wife as 
though indifferent or dead to his surroundings: it was 
obvious to Avice he was threatened with one of his 
“attacks.” 

“I’m glad you’re here, too, dear,” declared Avice un- 
truthfully : her heart sank at noticing how greatly the men 
outnumbered the girls. 

“But there’s no end to my worries,” laughed Rene. “Now 
I’m here, my next difficulty is partners.” 

“I can’t imagine you being a wallflower.” 

“I don’t mean for myself. I mean for Reggie.” 

“What!” from Avice. 

“Girls don’t much care about dancing with married 
men.” 

“Why!” 

“There’s 'nothing doing.’ ” 

“I thought you were speaking of yourself.” 

“It doesn’t matter about me. I don’t care if I don’t 
get a dance so long as Reggie enjoys himself.” 

“What a fool of a woman,” reflected Avice: the next 
moment, Rene was forgotten; she was speculating whether 
a Mr. Vaudrey, whom she rather liked, would ask her to 
dance. 

She had bowed to him, and he was advancing in her 
direction, when he was snapped up by Mrs. Nevill-Hutton, 
who was the terror of the young women. 

Mrs. Nevill-Hutton was fifty-five if she were a day: 
back view, or on the further side of the road on a dull day, 
she looked nineteen, so admirably corseted was her trim 
figure, and so beautifully was her face made up: she was 
an inveterate dancer, and had a trick of snapping up the 
smartest partners almost before they knew what had hap- 
pened. 


THE “DUDLEY^ 


If wrathful glances from mothers with marriageable 
daughters could have slain her, she would have been dead 
many a long year. 

Avice began to wish she had never come; replied crossly 
to a remark of her husband’s; and gave two dances and an 
^^extra” to a man she detested. 

This was a Mr. Wellesley Coughman : he was harmless 
enough; too harmless in fact: his only subject of conversa- 
tion was of some relative of his, of whom he repeated long- 
winded, pointless stories, which were designed to let every- 
body know their subject had been a general officer. 

A minute later, she regretted what she had done; she 
was overwhelmed with requests for dances ; and would have 
easily filled her programme had not Rene beseeched her not 
to forget Reggie. 

This success, and coming on top of expecting that she 
would have a lot of “sitting out,” rejoiced her heart: she 
longed for the moment when the band of five performers, 
which had just arrived, would begin; and she would be 
claimed by her first partner. 

She spoke graciously to her husband, who still stuck to 
her, and asked him why he did not fill his programme : upon 
his saying that, beyond dancing with Mrs. Sylvester, he did 
not care if he danced at all, she was jealous: she had never 
been jealous before. 

“Don’t forget to find some partners for Reggie, dear,” 
said Rene’s voice in her ear. 

“Girls would like it better if he asked them himself,” 
returned Avice. 

“I don’t think he feels quite like it. He may be better 
when once he begins.” 

“I’ll wait and see what girls sit out. How have you got 
on ?” 

“I’m not such a frump as I thought. My programme’s 
full.” 

“What did I tell you ! Don’t flirt too much with 
Leonard.” 

“No chance,” said Rene with an admirably simulated 
sigh. 

“What do you mean ?” asked Avice almost sharply. 

“He’s much too fond of you, dear.” 


48 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


Avice was sensible of a stir: this was caused by the almost 
simultaneous entrance of the three recognised leaders of 
Earl’s Court Society. 

First came Sir George Cavill, with his Lady on his arm : 
Sir George was pale-faced and puny and seemed on bad 
terms with his feet ; his wife was big, beefy, red-faced, and 
carried herself as though more than aware she was a Some- 
one of Importance. 

Close on their heels came Mrs. Osborn-Plater, who 
strode into the room much as if she were some sort of 
antique warrior who was submitting to the glory of a 
triumph: for captives of her bow and spear, her good- 
looking nephew, who much preferred music halls to dances ; 
and her companion, who carried a bouquet, fan and mis- 
cellaneous belongings of her tyrant; walked meekly in 
her train. Mrs. Osborn-Plater was the first cousin of a 
monied nobody who had bought a peerage : the airs and 
graces she gave herself on account of this connection irked 
that portion of Earl’s Court which put Blood before every- 
thing: although it did not disdain to mention Mrs. 
Osborn-Plater, and, of course, the Peer, to those it was 
safe to impress with a brand new title, it was not so 
accommodating to her wooden face: and any rebuffs she 
received, and to which she was sensitive, were visited on 
poor Miss Bedman, her companion; who was a lady by 
birth ; and whose feelings were hourly bruised, stabbed, and 
lacerated, in exchange for her twenty pounds a year and 
her keep. 

The first violin, who conducted, took his seat: his bow 
gave the signal; the band commenced; and Avice was 
claimed by her first partner. 

Usually husbands danced the first dance with their 
wives : as Leonard was an indifferent dancer he did not 
take advantage of this privilege and smiled at his wife as 
she was borne away on the arm of young Mr. Elphinstone 
Baker. 

Mr. Elphinstone Baker was the eldest son of a retired 
civil servant with a large family; he was a well-meaning 
youth and looked it; and from his conversation a stranger 
would have taken him for an officer in His Majesty’s senior 
service, and a keen one at that. 


THE ‘‘DUDLEY’ 


49 


He spoke of little beyond six-point-four guns ; “N. O.’s” 
(gun-room abbreviation for naval officers) ; “dog robbins’" 
(slang from the same place for civilian clothes) ; and the 
necessity for strengthening the East Indies squadron. 

Mr. Elphinstone Baker was not in the Navy, but drove 
a quill in a merchant’s office in the City, an occupation he 
did his best to forget as soon as he put on his hat at six in 
the evening, for five days in the week, and one on Satur- 
days. 

Avice, who had danced with him before, knew what to 
expect ; she put up with him because he was a fair waltzer. 

She declined his suggestion that they should sit out (she 
was much too fond of dancing for that sort of thing) and 
directly the band stopped, she went back to her husband, 
and was almost immediately joined by Rene Sylvester, who, 
with the excitement of dancing, was looking disconcertingly 
charming. 

“Did you see Reggie waltzing?” asked Rene. 

*T didn’t notice him.” 

“I’m so delighted he was able to. When is your first 
dance with him ?” 

“Number five.” 

“If he doesn’t feel, up to it, you don’t mind sitting out?” 

“Oh, of course not,” said Avice, who minded very much. 

“And — and — do this for me, dear. If he asks you to 
have anything, promise me you won’t.” 

“Of course, I won’t, if you wish it.” 

Rene entered into a long, and quite unnecessary explana- 
tion, why poor Reggie’s digestion should not be disturbed 
by the genus of sandwiches provided : it was cut short by 
the playing of the next waltz. 

Avice had rather dreaded this dance as it was with Mr. 
Wellesley Coughman, which meant she would have to listen 
to stories she knew almost by heart: but the languorous 
music, the rhythm of the waltz, had got into her blood ; she 
did not care whose arms were about her so long as her 
body could sway in unison with someone else’s. 

Wellesley Coughman’s stories fell idly on her ears; in- 
deed, she scarcely heard him; now, and for the rest of 
the evening, the mental and physical enjoyment which were 
hers made her forget she had left little Irma to a fool of 


50 A PILLAR OF SALT 

a maid : that she had insisted on her husband coming to the 
^‘Dudley.” 

Leonard was forgotten; she would not have minded if 
he had gone home to sit with Irma. 

Avice’s next dance (it was a schottishe) should have 
been with a Mr. Sopley, a dancing curate, who had married 
fifteen stone and money. 

This good man had been eager to get the most attractive 
partners, and had made a muddle of her programme; to 
her unspeakable annoyance, her dance was '‘cut.” 

Her husband ofifered to make it good ; not caring for such 
a makeshift, she declined his offer; and said she would “sit 
it out.” 

Avice did her best to appear as if she liked her unusual 
experience; and soon perceived her partner dancing with 
Mrs. Norman Butson. 

They passed close to her ; as they did so, the words “other 
side of the Park” fell on her ears: they had been spoken 
by Mrs. Norman Butson. 

“Like her cheek!” thought Avice, who knew that Mrs. 
Norman Butson encouraged her friends to believe she was 
a widow of an officer in the Indian army on the strength 
of saying things she liked were “pukka”; by calling lunch- 
eon, “Tiffin,” and soda water, “belati parni”; and by declar- 
ing she suffered from the cold on the hottest days : a “Harf s 
Quarterly Army List” occupied a prominent place in her 
bookshelves. 

As a matter of fact, her husband had been a successful 
insurance broker; but she was a practical woman, and hav- 
ing come to live in Earl’s Court, did not scruple to do as 
Earl’s Court did. 

Avice not being blessed, or cursed, with a sense of hu- 
mour, Mrs. Norman Butson’s vagaries annoyed her. 

Her resentment at not dancing was temporarily forgot- 
ten in watching a Mrs. Paget-Taylor who, with the possible 
exceptions of Mrs. Sylvester, Mrs. Morse, and herself, was 
the prettiest woman in the room. 

Paget-Taylor was a solicitor who had married beneath 
him : but his wife was such an exquisite creature, his matri- 
monial aberration had been almost overlooked. 

She was tall ; with sweet blue eyes, and dark auburn hair : 


THE “DUDLEY” 51 

she danced with a graceful abandon which was a delight 
to behold. 

When she was hidden by other dancers, Avice, who was 
near the door, regarded two young men who, from the fact 
of their not dancing, attracted scornful glances from the 
mothers of persistent wallflowers. 

They lolled with a fine assumption of complete boredom, 
and as though they were there against their wills : one of 
them surveyed the other from heel to head, and said in 
Avice’s hearing — 

“Your tie’s a bit out, old man !” 

“Is it?” 

“Shall I put it right?” 

“Thanks, old sport.” 

After this office was carefully performed, they resumed 
their affectation of boredom until the one whose tie had 
been put right, looked intently at his friend’s person, be- 
fore asking : 

“Is your waistcoat button coming undone, old boy ?” 

“Is it, old chap?” from the other. 

“Let me see to it.” 

“Thanks, old man.” 

Someone almost trod on Avice’s toes : she looked up, and 
saw it was Mr. Morse who, much against his will, had 
brought his young wife to the dance : he could no longer 
bear the sight of his darling, chatting and laughing in other 
men’s arms ; and was going out for a cigarette. 

Then Avice perceived a friend she had not noticed be- 
fore: this was a Mrs. Gibbard, wife of Colonel Gibbard; 
she was accompanied by a man who looked unusual in that 
gathering, and who compelled Avice’s attention. 

Masculine Earl’s Court was much of a type: it made a 
habit of shaving at least once a day; it wore its hair short; 
it dressed as well as it could; and looked as though the 
morning tub were not forgotten. 

But the man who was seated by Mrs. Gibbard gave a 
different impression ; he did not appear as if he were made 
to pattern; his clothes did not seem to fit, his tie was ill 
tied and on one side; he wore three black studs in his 
evening shirt; and his black hair long. 

Avice wondered who he could be until she recollected 


A' PILLAR OF SALT 


52 

that Mrs. Gibbard loved to know clever people whose 
names were in the papers; probably her companion was 
one of these. 

And if this were the case, Avice wondered if he were an 
artist; writer; or musician; if he were well known; or if 
he were an unknown genius struggling for recognition. 

Avice’s speculations were cut short by the stopping of 
the music; at the same moment could be heard the voice 
of Mrs. Osborn-Plater, which was immediately hushed. 

She attracted some attention : it was seen that she had 
been giving it to her long-suffering companion, whose face 
expressed a sullen resignation to the burdens she was 
compelled to shoulder. 

Avice glanced once more at Mrs. Gibbard’s companion; 
and this time caught and held his eyes until she dropped 
hers; she regretted her programme was full as she would 
have liked to have danced with him; a little later (he still 
haunted her mind) she reflected that that type of man 
rarely danced. 

Avice disregarded the talk of the couples on either side, 
and fell into a reverie; if she had been asked what she 
was thinking of, she would have truthfully replied she 
didn’t know. 

Without perceiving what she was at, she found herself 
regarding a face that was not far away. 

It was a woman’s face ; long, and pale, and nervous : 
the warm brown hair (it was almost red in places) was 
parted in the middle and smoothed back from the high 
forehead ; the hazel eyes, with their long dark lashes, 
held a dreamily wistful expression : and with its straight 
nose, rather large nostrils, and firm chin, the face would 
have looked austere, had it not been for the slightly parted 
lips: their comparative fullness a little surprised her. 

The face was partly obscured by a man’s bald pate, 
and Avice craned her neck in order to get a further view : 
upon the face moving also, she was dismayed, until she 
realised it was her own face she had been staring at. 

She glanced once more at her reflection, and at the same 
time saw that Mrs. Gibbard’s friend was looking at her. 

"'Don’t forget, dear; your next dance is with my hus- 
band)^ said Rene, who had approached her friend. 


THE ^^DUDLEY’ 


53 


'T'm not likely to forget.” 

“I saw you sitting out the last dance ; I feared you were 
tired.” 

'T was rather.” 

'Then, perhaps ” 

“Fm all right now,” interrupted Avice. 

“Fm so glad. Have you noticed Mrs. Paget-Taylor ? 
She looks simply lovely to-night.” 

'T saw her not long ago.” 

"It’s quite a pleasure to watch her: I almost wish 
everyone else would stop, so we could see her dance by 
herself.” 

"But she’s rather large feet,” urged Avice. "And Fm 
told—” 

This inevitable feminine qualification was interrupted 
by a loud voice, which said : 

"Here you both are. What were you talking about?” 

It came from a Mrs. Mervin-Fenn, who had the reputa- 
tion of being a good sort: she suffered from deafness, an 
affliction she persistently ignored, together with the fact 
that she habitually spoke far louder than was necessary. 

"We were speaking of Mrs. Paget-Taylor,” said Rene, 
in an undertone. 

"Who?” 

"Mrs. Paget-Taylor.” 

"Did you say Mrs. Phipps-Naylor?” 

"Hush ! Mrs. Paget-Taylor.” 

"Oh ! Mrs. Paget-Taylor.” 

Rene nodded, and looked apprehensively about her. 

"Isn’t she perfectly sweet?” cried Mrs. Mervin-Fenn 
in a voice that could almost be heard at the further end 
of the room. "And you should see her legs.” 

Avice and Rene did not know which way to look, while 
the latter did her best not to smile. 

"They’re simply topping,” Mrs. Mervin-Fenn went on. 
"I’ve never seen anything like them; indeed, they’re so 
wonderful, I believe she’s sorry she can’t show them when 
she dances.” 

Avice, who was a bit of a prude at heart, mentally shud- 
dered. Mrs. Mervin-Fenn went on: 

"You know pretty Mrs. Edgar Walsall, whose husband 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


54 

is that ugly little brute of a man: she’s so jealous of him, 
she sacked her cook on the spot because the woman took 
off his boots for him one evening. The cook’s forty if 
she’s a day, and is as broad as she’s long; but Mrs. Edgar 
Walsall said that men always ” 

The playing of the next dance cut short Mrs. Mervin- 
Fenn’s story : Avice was glad : she did not know what was 
coming: she was surprised to see a look of disappointment 
on Rene’s pretty face. 

Before the latter was claimed by her partner, she brought 
her husband over to Avice, and said: 

“Please, please take care of each other: you’re both 
very dear to me !” 

Avice, while pleased by this remark, thought poorly of 
her friend for making herself such a doormat to her 
Reggie. 

A minute later, she had something else to think of : 
Captain Sylvester did not appear to know what he was 
at: his legs seemed made of wood; he bumped into other 
dancers; he did not reply to Avice’s remarks; she feared 
that any moment might find her on the ballroom floor. 

“Shall we sit out?” urged Avice. 

She had to repeat her remark before he understood. 

Avice hoped he would take a seat; instead, he gripped 
her by the arm, and forced, rather than escorted her, in 
the direction of the room where refreshments were 
served. 

Although “Light Refreshments” were included in the price 
of the ticket, these were apparently so light that it was 
deemed unwise to put them on the table, and run the risk 
of being blown away. 

By making it necessary to ask for what was wanted, 
comparatively little was consumed. 

One glance at the desert of tablecloth was enough for 
Sylvester: still grasping Avice’s arm, he took her towards 
the entrance. 

“Where are you taking me ?” she asked. 

“Eh !” 

“Where are we going?” 

“It’s hot. I — we — want some air.” 

Thinking cool air would do something to revive him. 


THE “DUDLEY^' 55 

Avice did not make any objection, and accompanied him 
to the seats that were placed in the entrance. 

‘‘You would like some coffee?’^ he said. 

“Thank you.” 

“Better sit here. Then you will be out of draughts.” 

He placed the chair in a certain position and seemed to 
pass behind her: then, it was as though he had vanished: 
Avice did not know if he had gone up the stairs or left 
the building. 

She waited for some minutes in a fret : the strains of the 
barn-dance, which was being played, were borne to her 
ears ; and made her isolation the more irksome ; she longed 
to be upstairs and footing it with the rest. 

Sylvester did not return, and she began to get anxious: 
it occurred to her that with the cunning of the intem- 
perate, he might have given her the slip in order to go 
and drink. 

Avice was a bit of a moral coward at heart, and dreaded 
Renews reproaches for having been so easily outwitted. 

The dance ceased, and stray couples filtered do(wn- 
stairs ; still he did not come, and Avice became quite 
anxious and dreaded Sylvester’s return more than she had 
regretted his absence. 

In order to distract her mind from its apprehensions, 
Avice glanced at the couples which now almost filled the 
vestibule; she was acquainted with several, and knew most 
of the others by sight: she told herself that neither Mrs. 
Gibbard nor her companion had come down with the 
others. 

Avice perceived that the young women, who were look- 
ing their best from being flushed with the excitement 
of dancing and the proximity of the male of their species, 
were doing their best to captivate those units of the latter 
with whom they happened to be: most of the men were 
young (a buffer was here and there) and stood about in 
woodenly self-conscious attitudes which were meant to 
express the fact that they were quite at their ease. 

One of these last, who was near Avice, and who was 
bothered with an eyeglass, repeatedly told the girl he was 
with “What an or fully jolly little girl you are, don’t you 
know.” 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


56 

Some of the couples left the vestibule and walked the 
pavement immediately outside the big doors: Avice could 
see them through the glass panels; the men lit cigarettes 
and swaggered up and down with a contemptuous dis- 
regard of the passing busses which they would be eager 
to catch at anything after eight on the morrow. 

Avice was confronted by Rene and Leonard. 

“Where’s Reggie?” asked the former: her face was 
drawn with anxiety. 

“I wish I knew,” replied Avice. 

“You don’t know?” asked Leonard sharply. 

“He left me to get some coffee; since then I’ve seen 
nothing of him.” 

“Why did you let him go, dear?” inquired Rene. 

“He was gone before I knew what he was doing.” 

“Don’t you know where?” 

“He seemed to vanish.” 

“But, dear ” 

Rene got no further: her apprehensions were partly 
allayed by the appearance of her husband in the door- 
way; partly, because by his gait and incoherent utterance, 
there was no doubt where he had been. 

Leonard assisted him to an inconspicuous chair; while 
his wife, faithful as ever to the plough to which she had 
set her hand, fussed about him, and repeatedly told Avice 
he was suffering from the effects of heat-stroke in India. 

Avice was not sorry to be claimed by her partner for the 
next dance. 

He was a youngish man who talked incessantly of “good 
and bad form”; “nice” people (“nice” was the Earl’s 
Court vernacular for those who had an authentic, titled 
cousinship) ; “class” ; “common” and “rummy” people, 
which applied to dwellers in West Kensington and kindred 
suburbs outside the Pale: he danced badly ^and perspired 
with a persistency which disturbed Avice. 

In going round the room, two faces attracted and held 
her attention; they were those of poor bullied Miss Bed- 
man, Mrs. Osborn-Plater’s companion ; and of the man Mrs. 
Gibbard had brought to the “Dudley”: he did not dance, 
and whether sitting solitary, or talking to her, he looked 
out for Avice and often caught her eye. 


THE ‘‘DUDLEY” 


57 

She wished he danced and had several to spare: the 
fact of his not dancing made him seem even more unusual 
than he appeared; and this was enough to excite her 
curiosity. 

Her next partner was a Mr. Boscombe-Milderoy ; he 
was in the civil service, and lamented that his son on the 
score of some success in amateur theatricals had thrown 
up a good billet and had gone a-touring in a third-rate 
theatrical company. 

Then she danced with a man she did not like at all : 
this was Mr. Cuthbert Smee, who had an oily face and 
manners ; mean eyes : bad teeth ; and repulsive coarse lips ; 
he was a hanger-on of the clergy of St. Cuthberts; had a 
surprising knowledge of ecclesiastical ritual, and did not 
fail to let everyone know it; and lavished compliments on 
Avice’s face and figure to the point of offensiveness. 

She was thankful when he could no longer have the 
excuse for putting his arms about her, and resolutely 
declined his persistent suggestion that they should sit .out. 

Thus the evening wore away : she did not see any more 
of Rene or her husband, and easily obtained someone else 
to dance with her for the dances she had given to Captain 
Sylvester. 

Once, in the intervals between the dances, she over- 
heard the word passed from one young “Blood” to another : 
“Don’t speak to Grosvenor Pelley \” 

This sort of thing was not alien to her experience of 
Earl’s Court Society : she wondered what offence Grosvenor 
Pelley had committed to be thus put into “Coventry.” 

She caught infrequent glimpses of her husband: he 
looked profoundly bored; once, when their eyes met, she 
perceived what she called the “Irma” look in his. 

Later, he annoyed her by talking to, and apparently 
striving to amuse. Miss Bedman. 

“Why on earth must he talk to her, of all people?” 
Avice asked herself : she recked nothing of the keen pleas- 
ure his attentions gave the dependent. 

Before Avice finally left the ballroom to get her cloak, 
she exchanged a further glance with Mrs. Gibbard’s long- 
haired friend : she was not quite sure, but was almost cer- 
tain he rose from his seat and watched her go downstairs : 


58 A PILLAR OF SALT 

she was in the mind to look back, but thought better 
of it. 

“How have you enjoyed yourself, dear?” asked Leonard 
after they were seated in the cab, and were driving home. 

“Awfully,” she yawned : she was very tired. 

“I do hope Irma is all right.” 

“Of course, she is.” 

“I do hope so. Isn’t Rene a brick?” 

“Rene!” returned Avice absently. 

;^“To give up dancing, which she loves, and go home 
with that husband of hers I” 

“Did she!” asked Avice as before. 

“And the pathetic way she tries to shield him! That 
woman’s gold: gold all through.” 

“I do hope there’s a fire when we get back,” yawned 
Avice. 

Leonard did not reply. 

“Don’t you?” 

“Eh!” 

“You’re always wool-gathering.” 

“I was worrying about Irma, dear.” 

“She’s sure to be all right.” 

But on reaching home, it was discovered that the con- 
fidence of her mother was misplaced; the child had been 
put to bed by May; had been left alone; and on being 
frightened by something or another, had left her room; 
had slipped on the stairs, and strained her ankle. 

Avice’s preoccupation with the events of the evening 
were such that it was some moments before she could 
wholeheartedly devote herself to the sobbing child. 


CHAPTER V 


PENANCE 

‘This is a nice place for tea/' remarked Aunt Em as 
she stopped in front of the smart tea-shop at the Brompton 
end of the Earl’s Court Road. 

A vice, who, so to say, “had been there before,” knew 
what was coming, and held her peace. 

“Would you like to go in there, dear?” asked Aunt Em 
of Irma. 

“Should think I would!” replied the child, who looked 
with wistful eyes at the garish cakes and French pastry 
displayed in the windows. 

“I’ll just go in and see if it’s very full. You wait here 
with your mother, dear,” said Aunt Em, who forthwith 
entered the shop. 

Irma and her mother waited two or three minutes until 
Aunt Em came out; and, as Avice had expected, with a 
paper bag tied up with string. 

“There’s hardly room to move, dears,” she said. “We’d 
better see if we can’t find a quieter place.” 

Avice and Irma turned in the direction of the Richmond 
Road, where they knew the quieter (and cheaper) place 
was to be found. 

“Why are you going that way?” asked Aunt Em with 
simulated surprise. 

“There are some shops down this way,” returned Avice. 
“Though while we are about it, we may as well go home.” 

“I shouldn’t be happy if Irma didn’t have her little 
treat.” 

They proceeded down the Richmond Road at a snail’s 
pace because Aunt Em was very old and suffered from 

59 


6o 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


rheumatism ; presently, Avice and Irma involuntarily halted 
outside a tiny confectioner’s shop. 

'Why do you stop here?” asked Aunt Em in all inno- 
cence. 

“Because we always come here,” returned Avice irri- 
tably; she could not stand Aunt Em; and did not like 
being seen about with an old woman who wore such pre- 
posterously old-fashioned clothes : Aunt Em seemed to 
have come straight out of the middle sixties. 

“Well, dear, it’s nice and quiet in here; and Irma is 
not so likely to get excited.” 

Avice burned to say, “And cheaper than the other 
place.” 

She withheld the words because she knew how grieved 
Leonard would be if she offended his aunt. 

They went inside, and sat about one of the two marble- 
topped, round tables : upon the anaemic-looking attendant 
approaching, Aunt Em ordered a pot of tea for three. 

While it was being made ready, Aunt Em, whose hands 
trembled, and who looked as if she could scarcely see 
out of her dulled eyes, carefully untied the parcel she 
had brought out of the smart tea-shop. 

She produced a sixpenny cake, and furtively cut three 
slices on her lap, and said, and as though she had never 
done such a thing before : 

“I brought a cake with me from that other shopu 
They’re nicer than you can get here.” 

“They don’t usually tie up cakes,” remarked Avice 
maliciously: she knew of Aunt Em’s weakness for collect- 
ing string; also, matches which she hoarded at her house 
in a blind turning from the Fulham Road. 

“I asked for it. Big cakes like this often tumble out 
of paper bags. Here’s your piece, dear.” 

Irma, who had been watching her great-aunt with won- 
dering eyes, and doing her best to keep a serious face 
(she had inherited humour from her father), took the cake, 
and as it was uncertain whether she would get another 
piece, she made it go as far as possible by nibbling little 
bits at a time. 

Upon the arrival of the teapot, and a large jug of hot 
water, which Aunt Em insisted upon having, she care- 


PENANCE 


6i 


fully put away the piece of string, which had wrapped up 
the cake, before she poured out tea. 

The mishap that had befallen Irma was responsible for 
Avice’s surrender with regard to Aunt Em; and other 
things besides. 

She had been touched by the child’s fears; irked by the 
concern Leonard had exhibited ; and what had more effect 
than either of these, was the sharpness with which he had 
reproved her for putting herself before Irma in going to 
the “Dudley.” 

Irma had suffered something of a shock; the doctor, 
whom Leonard had insisted on calling in the first thing 
in the morning, had advised that the little patient should 
be kept in bed for a day or two; and that on no account 
was she to be left. 

Avice, who had been short-handed on account of Annie’s 
prolonged absence, had had to get in extra help; as this 
was little better than useless, she had to turn to with a 
will; on Leonard’s return in the evening, it was a hard 
matter to persuade him to take his meals away from the 
child’s bedside. 

The change from little or nothing to do, to having al- 
most more work than she could cope with, did Avice a 
world of good : she had no time to brood over her wrongs, 
real or fancied; she slept better; and did not suffer at all 
from what she called “nerves.” 

And although she had expected a nervous breakdown 
from overwork, she was surprised to find herself healthier 
in body; more contented in mind. 

This improvement made her less irritably averse from 
falling in with her husband’s wishes : moreover, whatsoever 
remorse she had suffered from having been more or less 
responsible for Irma’s indisposition had assisted this con- 
summation. 

Annie’s return, and with a will to make up for lost time, 
had enabled Avice to resume the old idle life, with the 
result that she was daily becoming more alive to the nebu- 
lous needs whose existence she had well-nigh forgotten. 

She would not have gone out with Aunt Em if she had 
not promised Leonard in the days of her contrition that 
she would not refuse the next invitation. 


62 


A PILLAR OF SALT 

^T hope you do your best to look after dear Leonard,” 
said Aunt Em, after she had placed her hands for warmth 
about the tea-cup. 

“Of course,” almost snapped Avice, who knew what was 
coming. 

“You always air his under-things ?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“And his shirts?” 

“Of course.” 

«And his ” 

“Yes ; yes ; yes.” 

“So glad to hear you take such care of him. I^m very 
fond of Leonard. Since my husband died, he’s all I have 
to care for.” 

The old lady was musingly silent, until she said : 

“He’s one fault, though.” 

“Indeed !” absently from Avice ; she was wondering how 
long it would be before she could get away. 

“He wastes matches. I’ve often seen him use three 
to light a pipe. When I was young, everyone used 
spills.” 

“Lifers too short to worry about such things.” 

Aunt Em did not seem to hear, and went on: 

“And more than once I’ve seen him cut string. Apart 
from that, you’ve got a very good husband.” 

“Don’t you think he has a very good wife?” 

The old lady surveyed Avice with her dim eyes. 

“I hope so,” she said at last: then, as she set about 
wrapping up the remains of the cake, she remarked to 
Irma: 

“I’m sorry you won’t have any more cake, dear.” 

The fact of the child being used to her great-aunt’s 
oddities did not prevent Irma from staring at the old 
lady with much the same eyes as she had regarded her 
mother on the night of the “Dudley.” 

“And now I think it’s time we thought about getting 
home,” declared Aunt Em, and rose to her feet. 

They crawled in the direction they had come: Aunt 
Em held Irma by one hand; the remains of the cake, her 
purse, and a reticule Avice often told Leonard dated 
from the stone age in the other: Avice, inwardly fuming 


PENANCE 63 

at the whole thing, did her best to accommodate her steps 
to the slow progress which was being made. 

She hoped from the bottom of her heart she would not 
meet any of her smart Earl’s Court friends. 

The fates that ruled her life had ordered otherwise, 
however: Mrs. Gibbard ran into the little party almost 
as soon as they were opposite the beginning of the Bromp- 
ton Cemetery. 

*'Just the very person I wanted to see,” cried Mrs. 
Gibbard at catching sight of Avice. 

There was nothing for it but to introduce Mrs. Gibbard 
to Aunt Em, whereupon the latter, who was nervous, and 
was easily flurried, dropped the indifferently done-up par- 
cel : the partly-consumed cake rolled on to the pavement. 

Irma laughed; on seeing the hard expression on her 
mother’s face, she did her best to look serious, and grabbed 
at the cake, and handed it to Aunt Em, who said as she 
wrapped it up : 

“I can easily cut off where it’s dirty.” 

Avice was so angry, she could almost have struck Aunt 
Em. 

“Which way were you going, dear?” asked Mrs. Gib- 
bard. “I’ve been going to call on you ever since the night 
of the 'Dudley,’ but have been so fearfully rushed.” 

“I’m walking a little way with my aunt,” returned 
Avice. 

“Then I’ll come with you. How sweet Irma is looking: 
I always loved Irma ; she’s such artistic fingers.” 

“Such what?” from Aunt Em. 

“Artistic fingers. I live for art and artistic people.” 

“Is your husband an artist?” 

“Anything but,” almost sighed Mrs. Gibbard. “He’s 
only a soldier.” 

They talked of any and everything until Aunt Em 
took her leave, but not before she insisted on being seen 
across the road by the others. 

Avice was unfeignedly thankful when she was quit of 
Aunt Em, and said: 

“You must excuse my aunt, or rather my husband’s 
aunt. She’s scarcely ‘all there.’ ” 

She was wasting her breath, for Mrs. Gibbard replied: 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


64 

“Don’t you know that we artistic people adore char- 
acter almost as much as we do creative genius ?” 

“Yes, but ” 

“Let me tell you what I wanted to say. Why don’t 
you and your husband come to my artistic ‘Mondays’?” 

“He doesn’t much care about going out.” 

“He would come to me if he knew all the clever people 
he was going to meet. And that reminds me, one of them 
is very anxious to know you.” 

“Indeed !” 

Avice was all attention. 

“I don’t know if you noticed him! He came with me 
to the ‘Dudley.’ ” 

“Did he!” non-committally from Avice. 

She quite well remembered to whom her friend alluded : 
he had been much in her thoughts since she had seen him, 
though with increasing infrequency of late. 

“He’s Mr. Aubrey Pinnick, the great writer: of course, 
you have heard of him!” 

Avice had done nothing of the kind; and blamed herself 
for not being more in touch with things literary: not- 
withstanding her ignorance, she returned 

“Of course.” 

“He doesn’t dance ; and naturally despises anything 
frivolous of that sort; he asked me to take him for some- 
thing he is writing.” 

Avice was immensely flattered by the fact of a figure 
in the world of Brains wishing to know her : her companion 
went on : 

“Yes : while all you people were dancing and frivolling, 
there was an Intellect at work; and taking mental notes 
of his impressions.” 

“I’ll certainly try and bring my husband one evening.” 

“If he won’t come, bring any clever people you know: 
the more the merrier. Brains are the only passport to 
my ‘Mondays.’ ” 

They parted soon after this ; Avice walked home enwrapt 
in thought, and not replying to Irma’s questions. 

So he had been interested in her, and wished to meet 
her again I 

She recalled him more vividly to mind ; and every trifling 


PENANCE 


65 

incident which had concerned them on the night of the 
dance : their mutual glances ; the way he had followed her 
with his eyes; the impression (it almost amounted to a 
conviction) that he had got up to watch her descend the 
stairs. 

His curiosity regarding her; his desire for her acquaint- 
ance gave a savour to her life which had been sadly want- 
ing: the blood coursed gladly in her veins; she was con- 
scious of the beating of her heart; and walked with light 
feet. 

A sharp cry of pleasure from Irma awoke Avice to the 
drab (by comparison with her previous thoughts) present. 

^‘Monsieur de Brillac! Monsieur de Brillac!” she cried, 
and broke away from her mother in the direction of her 
home. 

Sure enough, there was M. de Brillac, the French- 
master at Irma’s school, and clad in the black suit which 
was surely almost as old as its wearer: he was talking to 
Leonard, who had met him without the house. 

He lifted his hat and bowed to Avice, who wondered 
what was wanting in Leonard to make him take up with 
such people as broken-down French-masters: she recalled 
how he had annoyed her by talking to Mrs. Osborn-Plater’s 
long-suffering companion at the dance. 

“Good-afternoon, dear Madam. I am glad to see you 
so well,” said M. de Brillac. 

“Good-afternoon,” returned Avice stiffly. 

“But then you English ladies always look so well. You 
go for so many walks.” 

“I was telling Monsieur de Brillac how pleased we 
would be if he were to come in some evening,” said Leon- 
ard. “He must be very lonely all by himself in lodgings.” 

Avice, who was taken aback by the suggestion, did not 
quite know what to say: she did not wish to be rude to 
anyone in such a comparatively humble position; on the 
other hand, she did not want to run the risk of his meeting 
any of her smart friends in her house. 

' Happily, before she could make any sort of reply, Irma 
cried out while clinging to M. de Brillac’s arm: 

“Do come. Monsieur de Brillac: do come and see me.” 

“I shall make you speak French if I do, mam’selle.” 


66 


'A PILLAR OF SALT 


*^Oh\ No; no” 

*‘But I should : so you know what to expect from me.” 

“Why not come in now,” from Leonard. 

“Thank you. But another time.” 

Avice had feared the acceptance of this invitation, and 
was almost grateful to M. de Brillac for refusing; they 
stood talking about anything or nothing, and in spite of 
herself, Avice was disarmed by the exquisite manners of 
the Frenchman: she did not know, and would not have 
believed it if she had been told, that he was far more 
entitled to boast of Blood than the best connected family 
in her set. 

Leonard shook hands with M. de Brillac on parting, 
while Irma, after having to be almost dragged from him, 
kissed her hand from the doorway. 

Notwithstanding that, in her heart, Avice rather liked 
M. de Brillac than otherwise, she used the fact of Leonard 
having invited him to the house as a stick to beat him 
with directly they were alone: she had no particular 
reason to be put out with him, but he was the only person 
on whom she could loose the anger that raged in her heart. 

“I never heard such a thing,” she began. 

“What is the matter now, dear !” he asked in surprise. 

“Asking a man like that to the house.” 

“Avice !” 

“Don’t ‘Avice’ me, and stand there looking like that. 
You oughtn’t to do such a thing.” 

‘Where on earth is the harm?” 

“Where isn’t it!” 

“Monsieur de Brillac is a gentleman. I should have 
thought you would have seen that for yourself.” 

“A broken-down French teacher, a gentleman!” she 
cried scornfully. 

“There is no reason why he shouldn’t be.” 

«But ” 

“Don’t be so provincial, Avice.” 

This reflection on her fancied broadmindedness added 
fuel to the fires of her wrath. 

“Provincial indeed! I should like to know what some 
of our friends would say if they met him here.” 

“Does it matter two straws what they say?” 


PENANCE 


67 


“That’s where it is! You’re so selfish!” 

“ ‘Selfish !’ ” 

“You never think of anyone but yourself.” 

“Avice !” 

“You know it’s true; you can’t deny it.” 

“We always seem to be having rows,” sighed Leonard. 

“What else can you expect if you make me go out with 
Aunt Em.” 

“I know she’s trying. But it isn’t often. And she’s 
very fond of us.” 

“Is that any reason why you should tell her I neglect 
my duties !” 

“What have you got hold of now?” 

“She asked me if I aired your clothes and ” 

“You know how absurdly fussy she is on such things.” 

“How could she have got ‘on to it’ if you hadn’t told 
her?” 

“You know me better than that.” 

“And then she must take back the cake she had cut, 
and drop it on the pavement when I was talking to Mrs. 
Gibbard.” 

“Did she!” 

“Wasn’t it shameful?” 

“I think it’s rather funny.” 

“Leonard !” 

“I should like to have been there.” 

Avice stared at her husband with astonished eyes: he 
was smiling with that smile of subtle enjoyment she knew 
so well, while her own face was hard and set : she did not 
know that the chasm which separated their several points 
of view assisted their lack of sympathetic understanding.” 

“I think it’s awfully funny,” he went on. “And I should 
have thought you would have seen it too.” 

Aubrey Pinnick, and his desire to make her acquaint- 
ance, came into her mind : the fact of there being someone, 
and a personable someone at that, who admired her thawed 
her anger: and in order to hide her retreat was, perhaps, 
the reason why she shed tears. 

Leonard at once came over to his wife, and tried to 
comfort her: she gently repulsed him^ and went upstairs 
and took off her hat. 


68 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


Nine o’clock that evening found Avice doing further 
penance for having preferred the ‘"Dudley” to being with 
Irma: she was sitting in what was called the “smoking- 
room” with a book on her knee (it was upside down) and 
in the intervals of brooding on her wrongs, watching with 
resentful eyes an interminable game of chess. 

The players were her husband and a Mr. Merkin; and 
what aggravated her, apart from being compelled to spend 
a dull evening, was that Mr. Merkin hailed from beyond 
the Pale. 

Mr. Merkin was manager for a small firm of army 
agents; from being continually brought in contact with 
service men, he had taken on himself to ape their appear- 
ance and ways : he wore his hair very short ; his moustache, 
tooth-brush fashion: walked erect; and was as well turned 
out as his means allowed: he affected military stations 
for his holidays, where he mitigated his profound boredom 
by devouring unnumbered volumes of rubbishy fiction on 
which he was no mean authority. 

Leonard had picked him up at Hythe on a holiday be- 
fore his marriage; and had kept up the acquaintance on 
account of their mutual liking for chess in face of his wife’s 
discouragement. 

He came once a fortnight to play chess with Leonard, 
who would have liked him to come oftener. 

Their intent faces and infrequent monosyllables jarred 
Avice’s nerves ; if it had not been for a desire to feed her 
appetite for discontent, she would long since have got 
up and left the room. 

The ray of light which had struck across her horizon in 
the person of Aubrey Pinnick enabled her to appreciate 
the depth of the murk with which she had been sur- 
rounded : this knowledge put her in the mood to 
seize any alleviation of her fancied hard lot with both 
hands. 

It was monstrous, she told herself, that a woman of her 
youth, looks, and temperament should be content with a 
humdrum existence such as hers: and surely if Leonard 
loved her as much as he sometimes made out, why on 
earth did he not show it; and try and take her out of 
herself ! 


PENANCE 


69 


Words were cheap ; deeds alone counted. 

She quite made up her mind to go to Mrs. Gibbard’s 
next Monday in the hope of seeing Mr. Pinnick. 

There was no suggestion of wrongdoing in Avice’s mind : 
she would have looked on the mere thought of such a 
thing with repugnance. 

But if a man, who rather appealed to her, admired and 
wished to meet her, there was no harm in winning a little 
distraction by meeting him. 

Avice convinced herself that, far from doing anything 
amiss, she was performing a meritorious act in taking 
advantage of meeting Mr. Pinnick; consequently, she was 
determined that nothing short of an unforeseen calamity 
would prevent her from going to Mrs. Gibbard’s forth- 
coming “Monday.” 

The game was finished; while the pieces were being 
arranged for another, Avice said: 

“What are you doing on Monday, dear?” 

“Why?” 

“Mrs. Gibbard wants us to go to one of her *At Homes.’ ” 

“Would it amuse you?” 

“She rather spoke as if she were offended at our not 
going.” 

“I thought of going to the Sylvesters’.” 

‘^But ” 

“I think it does him good if someone looks in some- 
times.” 

“Won’t any other night do ?” suggested Avice in a casual 
voice she hoped concealed her anxiety. 

“I wrote and said I would look in.” 

“What am I to do?” 

“Don’t you care about coming with me ?” 

“It isn’t that. The Sylvester menage is sometimes a 
bit depressing.” 

“I should have thought of that,” said Leonard; who 
added, after a pause: “There’s a man I want to have 
down to dinner one evening. When I say ‘want,’ I mean 
I can’t very well get out of it.” 

“Who is he?” inquired Avice. 

“A man named Boaker at my office. I was wondering 
if I’d have him down while you went to Mrs. Gibbard’s.” 


70 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


'Wouldn't he think it funny my not being here to meet 
him?" 

“1 suppose he would. But he’s scarcely the sort of man 
you’d care to meet. Perhaps, though, I’d better go to 
the Sylvesters’.’’ 

"What am I to do ?’’ asked Avice. 

"There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go to Mrs. Gib- 
bard’s if you want to.’’ 

"I don’t want to.’’ 

^‘Then ’’ 

"I don’t want to offend Mrs. Gibbard.’’ 

"That settles it. I can come in and fetch you.’’ 

Leonard had been so nice with regard to her going that 
she half regretted wanting an evening’s freedom; but this 
was only until the two men resumed their play: the irrita- 
ting silence; the absorption of Leonard and Mr. Merkin in 
their game, diverted her thoughts into their original chan- 
nel of discontent. 

Leonard speedily won, whereupon the two men drew 
their chairs to the fire, and lit their pipes. 

"Wonder how Irma is?’’ said Leonard. 

"All right,’’ absently from Avice. 

"Was she asleep when you saw her last?" 

"Fast." 

"Hadn’t one of us better go up?" 

"She’s all right. Annie is with her." 

"Sure I" 

"Should I say so if she weren’t!" 

Leonard’s concern for Irma irritated Avice the more: 
upon the two men trying to engage her in conversation 
she replied in discouraging monosyllables. 

"They should not have put their wretched game before 
her," she told herself. 

The two men drifted to the subject of books: Mr. 
Merkin had read "a jolly good yarn, and by a man who 
had service life at his finger-ends." He could not remem- 
ber its title or the name of the author. 

"Was it by 'Aubrey Pinnick’?" hazarded Avice. 

"That wasn’t the name." 

"Who’s Aubrey Pinnick?" asked Leonard. 

"A well-known writer." 


PENANCE 


71 


‘‘Never heard of him. Have you, Merkin?’^ 

“Can’t say I have.” 

“I should have thought you would,” said Avice, who 
put down their not knowing him to their ignorance. 

Shortly after, Merkin left: instead of sitting up and 
chatting with Leonard as Avice was wont to do, she went 
upstairs to bed. 

And before she fell asleep, she told herself that, per- 
haps, her luck had changed; that the fact of another man 
admiring her would, in a way she avoided defining, change 
Leonard from the husband he was to a husband more 
conformable to the dreams of her romantic imaginings. 


CHAPTER VI 


MRS. GIBBARD’s MONDAY 

Avice had carefully dressed for the occasion, and stood 
on the threshold of Mrs. Gibbard’s house in Warwick 
Gardens. 

The door was opened by a smart-looking servant, who, 
after glancing at Avice, stared at her in some perplexity. 

“Mrs. Gibbard!’’ 

“Did you say Mrs. Gibbard, madam 

“Yes.’’ 

“This way, please.” 

Colonel and Mrs. Gibbard had different tastes. While 
the latter cared only for “Brains” and “Genius,” her hus- 
band was a commonsense man whose hobby was carpen- 
tering: the house possessed a large coal-cellar, which he 
had had fitted up as a carpenter’s shop, and where, of an 
evening, he received his men friends who were of a like 
mind to his. 

The maid, after some experience, could usually tell at 
a glance whether a given caller was for her master or 
mistress : if a man looked greasy, long-haired, or moth- 
eaten; and a woman floppy; the girl (she walked out 
with a corporal in the Irish Guards and “couldn’t abear 
anyone who took after organ-grinders”) showed them 
upstairs with as much disdain as she dare exhibit: should, 
however, a man be short-haired, well set up, shaven; or 
the wife of such, who sometimes looked in for five minutes, 
appear at all smart, the maid conducted them downstairs 
with deference: here, the men sat about in the cellar, and 
talked, and smoked, and chaffed Gibbard about his craze 
for carpentering; and if no women were present, told 
smoking-room stories. 


72 


MRS. GIBBARD’S MONDAY 


73 

Avice discerned her hostess with difficulty; she was sur- 
rounded by a crowd of those she delighted to honour. 

*‘So glad to see you. Is your husband here? I must 
introduce you to all sorts of clever people. You’re lucky 
to be here to-night. I don’t know who isn’t coming,” 
said Mrs. Gibbard directly Avice could get near her. 

Avice, who had come to meet Mr. Pinnick, was in fear 
of being bored: she had reckoned without her hostess, 
who darted forward to meet a man who seemed all black 
hair, black beard, and black eyebrows; and who carried 
a violin case. 

“Hello !” said a voice at her elbow. 

Avice had been greeted by the daughter of the house. 

Joyce Gibbard was a pretty, happy-go-lucky girl of 
sixteen; she adored her father and, having a keen sense 
of humour, she made the best of the two worlds which 
existed in her home. 

She would laugh and joke with her mother’s friends; 
and then go down to the coal-cellar, where she was always 
welcome, and where everyone made a fuss of her. 

“Why don’t you come downstairs?” asked Joyce after 
Avice had greeted her. 

“I came to see your mother.” 

“It’s much better fun down there. You get better men.” 

“But ” 

“Most of them are a ‘bit long in the tooth’; but they 
are men. And you’re much too pretty and smait to stick 
these people for long.” 

“Surely they’re not so bad as that!” 

“Look at them. Come on : father admires you awfully.” 

“Your father!” 

“He’s got an eye for the girls, although he’s nearly 
sixty. I believe the older they get, the worse they are.” 

“Joyce!” exclaimed Avice in surprise. 

“If you keep your eyes open, you can’t help learning 
things. Now I’m going to take you down.” 

Avice, who had no intention of going, and was wondering 
what excuse would be most effective, was saved the effort 
of making one by Mrs. Gibbard : her hostess swooped 
down upon her ; took her by the hand ; surveyed the room, 
and decided to whom Avice should be introduced. 


74 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


The latter had no say in the matter : she was pulled over 
to a little woman with watery eyes; she was talking to a 
man who seemed all elbows and knees. 

'This is Daphne Epps, one of our noted novelists,” 
said Mrs. Gibbard. "Mrs. Dale ; Daphne Epps.” 

Elbows and knees got up with alacrity, and Avice took 
the seat he had vacated beside the novelist of note of 
whom she had never heard. 

"Are you one of us?” asked Daphne Epps in a thin, 
affected voice. 

"What do you mean?” returned Avice. 

"Writer? Poet? Painter? Or musician?” 

"Pm nothing at all.” 

"Oh!” The novelist of note appeared not a little 
relieved. "Then of course you want to hear me talk 
'shop.^ ” 

Talking "shop” meant telling Avice every detail of 
what Daphne Epps called her career, relevant or other- 
wise; and with a hint of recitative which suggested she 
was parrotting an oft-told story. 

Avice did not mind in the least; the droning voice fell 
on her ears, and as though it would go on for ever, but 
Daphne Epps’s preoccupation in herself enabled the other 
to look for Mr. Aubrey Pinnick. 

It was a difficult matter to find a given someone; the 
room was full; and Mrs. Gibbard was here, there, and 
everywhere introducing her lions and lionesses (in reality 
they were the sorriest of cubs) to as many people as was 
possible: she would conduct one of her celebrities to a 
friend, and take the necessary precaution to give the latter 
a lightning sketch of his or her career : five minutes later, 
at most, she would swoop down with another guest in 
tow, and present this last to the Somebody. 

Avice was let alone longer than she had dared to hope 
for; and, at last, descried Aubrey Pinnick talking to a 
woman at his side, whose face was expressive of intelli- 
gence and sourness : his appearance to-night confirmed 
the favourable opinion Avice had formed of him : he was 
more in his element than at the dance ; and more animated 
than he had appeared on that occasion. 

The fact of his giving all his attention to his com- 


MRS. GIBBARD’S MONDAY 


75 

panion, and his not trying to discover if she (Avice) 
were there, put an edge on her desire to make his acquaint- 
ance. 

She watched him out of the comers of her eyes, and was 
struck by the shape of the back of his head: it seemed to 
go straight to his neck: the unusual conformation fasci- 
nated her. 

In the game of “Post” which was continually being 
played at Mrs. Gibbard’s instigation, Avice wondered how 
long it would be before she was conducted to Mr. Pinnick : 
she saw him taken from the woman at his side and intro- 
duced to two girls who were dressed alike, and had the 
same simpering eyes : another man was taken to the woman 
Mr. Pinnick had been with, and had not been there three 
minutes before Mrs. Gibbard approached Avice. 

She was about to ask her hostess when she was to meet 
Mr. Pinnick, but was overwhelmed with a sudden shyness: 
she took her chance, which resolved itself into her being 
introduced to a Mr. Clarence Pilmer, whom she was in- 
formed was the man above all others who was an authority 
on Omar Khayyam; knew most of the quatrains by heart; 
and was a poet of some eminence (the qualification was 
significant) himself. 

Mr. Pilmer was pasty-faced; hollow-cheeked; and suf- 
fered from a cough, to relieve which he took pastilles from 
a box: notwithstanding his lack of stamina, he told Avice 
at much length that he was full of the lust of wine; the 
lust of dance; the lust of the desert; the lust of song; 
and, of course, the lust of “Thou.” 

Avice, at last, interrupted him by asking 

“Do you know Mr. Aubrey Pinnick?” 

“Eh?” 

She repeated her question. 

“The writer?” asked Mr. Pilmer with a touch of con- 
tempt in his voice. 

“Yes.” 

“He’s met me.” 

“Rather well known, isn’t he?” 

“Thinks he is.” 

“Why! Isn’t — isn’t he very clever?” 

“Daresay he thinks he is. But do not speak of alien 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


76 

matters. I was trying to surround ourselves with the 
atmosphere of the illimitable yellow sands; of song: dance: 
and I ” 

His cough prevented him from completing what he had 
to say. 

Avice was a little despondent at learning that her com- 
panion was not impressed by Mr. Pinnick’s ability, until 
she bore in mind that these clever people always ‘‘crabbed” 
one another. 

This reflection impelled her to interrupt Mr. Pilmer, 
and ask: 

“Of course you have been to the Sahara !” 

“The Sahara!” returned Mr. Pilmer blankly. 

“To know so much about it.” 

“Pve never been out of England.” 

“Indeed I” 

“But that’s where the artistic imagination comes in.” 

He went on as before, and soon got on her nerves: 
mercifully for Avice, a song with a violin obbligato gave 
her a restful interval: directly it was over, she contrived 
to catch Mrs. Gibbard’s eye; perhaps the latter was moved 
by the other’s despairing look, for she made her way to 
where Avice was sitting and said: 

“I’ve been looking for you, dear. I want to introduce 
you to Miss Soulsby.” 

^^But 1” 

“Of course, you have heard of her.” 

Avice, who had come to meet Mr. Pinnick, took her 
courage in both hands, and said: 

“What about Mr. Pinnick?” 

“Presently, dear.” 

“I’m not staying very late.” 

“So many people want to meet Aubrey Pinnick. I 
won’t forget.” 

Miss Soulsby was the woman with the animated sour 
face with whom Mr. Pinnick had been conversing: she 
was introduced as the Miss Soulsby, which as good as said 
Avice must know all about her. 

Avice sat by her side ; almost wished she had not come ; 
and reflected that, if she had not yet met Mr. Pinnick 
(the fact of his being in such request sent him up in her 


MRS. GIBBARD’S MONDAY 


77 

estimation) at least she was with someone he had been 
talking to a few minutes back. 

“Are you one of the artistic crowd?” asked Miss 
Soulsby. 

“Indeed, no.” 

“I did not think you were. Delighted to hear it.” 

“Oh !” ejaculated A vice in some surprise. 

“They are so wrapped up in themselves, there’s no doing 
anything with them.” 

And in reply to the questioning look in Avice’s eyes, 
she went on : 

“I mean with regard to the only thing that matters 
at all.” 

Before Avice could ask what this might be. Miss Soulsby 
said : 

“If I may say so, you don’t look very happy.” 

“Who is?” from Avice. 

“And wherever you go, you find the same thing with 
our sex. And no wonder! But we’re making wonderful 
headway with the people who matter.” 

Avice was beginning to be interested: Miss Soulsby 
might throw some light on her discontents; she all but 
forgot her anxiety to meet Mr. Pinnick; and listened with 
all her ears while the other continued : 

“As I said before, I don’t mean those mere writing, 
fiddle-scraping, piano-thumping women : they’re dolts out- 
side of the things they do more badly than otherwise; and 
all they’re ‘out for’ is to find people who’ll give them a lift.” 

“Whom do you mean, then?” 

“People who’re somebodies; not the nobodies one runs 
up against in this benighted part of the world.” 

Avice pricked up her ears; she could not recall having 
heard social Earl’s Court spoken of slightingly before: she 
was hurt at this reflection on her friends, and, at the same 
time, pleased: all too often had she been irked at being 
reminded that she had come from the “other side of the 
Park.” 

“Our crusade is making headway amongst these,” said 
Miss Soulsby complacently. “Even such a restless cam- 
paigner as myself am astonished at the progress we are 
making among rich and influential women whom you 


78 A PILLAR OF SALT 

would think would be the last to be influenced in favour 
of the Cause.” 

“I’m still a little in the dark,” pleaded Avice. 

“So I gathered. But I’m explaining myself at length 
because I’ve an instinctive idea that sooner or later I shall 
enlist you as a recruit.” 

“I should like really to take an interest in something,” 
returned Avice rather artlessly. 

“Can any woman, who has eyes to see and a heart to 
feel, be insensible to the wrongs of our sex?” asked Miss 
Soulsby with an approach to a somewhat mechanical 
warmth. “The long hours they work : their wretched 
pay; the disabilities they suffer from the fact of their 
sex: and apart from this, the way they are victimised and 
preyed on by men for their hideously selfish purposes.” 

Avice had got it by now; she had heard whispers of the 
agitation: it had seemed to have come out of the “New 
Woman” movement, which had been derided in the days 
of her childhood: she had never met one of its supporters 
in the flesh. 

“Then you are out for woman’s suffrage!” said Avice. 

“Amongst other things,” replied Miss Soulsby with a 
smile. “But please understand, I am no declared enemy 
of man. I like men, if I can respect them. And after all 
said and done, man is the victim of his environment; and 
if his world is a pleasant place, you can’t blame him for 
taking it as he finds it.” 

“Still 1” 

“Fm coming to that. If one believes a thing essential 
to one’s well-being, one is surely entitled to do all one can 
to obtain it. And if men have won what rights and 
liberties they possess from ceaseless agitation, one cannot 
blame us for following their example.” 

“Anything but.” 

A slight pause was broken by Miss Soulsby self-con- 
sciously asking: 

“Have I interested you ?” 

“Very much.” 

“Really and truly?” 

“Really and truly.” 

“I knew I would: I have an uncanny knack of reading 


MRS. GIBBARD’S MONDAY 


79 

people. I don’t want you to have more than you can 
digest for the present, so I won’t say any more now beyond 
this: If you will give me your card, I will give you some 
of our literature; and if, after reading it, you think you 
would like to join us, I will introduce you to Mrs. Gaunt.” 

“Who might she be ?” 

“You mean to say you have not heard of Mrs. Gaunt?” 

“I’m afraid not.” 

“You do surprise me. Mrs. Gaunt is one of our leaders ; 
if not the leader: she is a personality; a force; a shining 
light to all women who grope in darkness. And she lives 
in Eccleston Square; South Belgravia.” 

“Quite a smart part of London !” 

“Of course,” said Miss Soulsby with an inflection of 
contempt in her voice for the obviousness of Avice’s re- 
mark. “And let me tell you it’s a privilege to know her. 
Apart from the fact of her being a personality, a thing 
you instinctively feel, you meet at her house people one 
would never dream of coming across in this part of the 
world.” 

“Is that so !” 

“That is so,” returned Miss Soulsby with a smack of 
relish in her voice. “I mean people who’re really in 
Society : people who’ve money and know how to spend it. 
People who keep their own carriages and motors.” 

“I’d better give you my card,” said Avice. 

“Do. And I’ll send you some copies of the Suffragette. 
If you read them, as, of course, you will, you will see how 
apparently the best-meaning men tyrannise over their 
womenfolk for their selfish ends.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“In making women-slaves of their mothers and sisters; 
and harem women of their wives, if they’re pretty.” 

“Harem women!” 

“Making a ridiculous fuss of them while passion lasts; 
and then treating them like goods and chattels.” 

Avice reflectively bit her lip. 

“But you should hear Agatha Pash on that subject: 
you will probably meet her at Mrs. Gaunt’s. It is a 
matter she has made quite her own.” 

“I should like to meet her.” 


8o 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘‘Do you know Mr. Pinnick?” asked Miss Soulsby. 

“Mr. Pinnick!” 

Miss Soulsby had quite taken hold of Avice : she had 
temporarily forgotten the object for which she had come 
to Mrs. Gibbard’s. 

“He was talking to me just now. He’s sitting over there, 
and is watching you a lot.” 

“Is he interested in the movement?” asked Avice, and 
without raising her eyes. 

“Like all writers he is more interested in himself.” 

“Naturally,” declared Avice, who instinctively defended 
him. 

“I don’t see it follows. Have you read any of his writ- 
ings?” 

“No. Have you?” 

“Not yet. I believe he’s more a poet and essayist than 
anything else. But he has a personality.” 

“Has he?” 

“You feel it when you’re talking to him.” 

“How delightful!” 

“He’s rather like ‘Stephen Torrens.’ ” 

“ ‘Stephen Torrens I’ ” 

“The great writer. Surely you know the name!” 

“Of course. Is he really?” 

“And I fancy he knows it ; and lives up to it.” 

Five minutes later, Avice had been introduced to, and 
was seated beside, Aubrey Pinnick. 

“Yes; I was very anxious to meet you,” he was saying 
for the third time. “You affect me.” 

“In what way?” Avice, at last, ventured to ask. 

“Frankly, I don’t know. That is what a man of my 
temperament is so eager to discover.” 

“I hope you won’t be disappointed.” 

“That would be impossible,” he declared, and directing 
upon her a glance that made her drop her eyes. 

A short silence was broken by her saying: 

“There seem a lot of people here to-night.” 

“A good many were anxious to meet me.” 

Avice was still more impressed by his importance; and 
was immensely flattered by the fact of his admiration. 

“Naturally,” she murmured. 


MRS. GIBBARD’S MONDAY 8i 

'^And whatever one may feel personally on the matter, 
one must consider one’s public.” 

“Of course.” 

“It’s only fair to them.” 

“He’s kind-hearted as well as clever,” reflected Avice. 

“May I ask if you have read any of my books?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Not!” 

“It’s a pleasure to come.” 

“You must let me send them to you.” 

Such condescending generosity from one so exalted 
(Avice was in the mood to abase herself) almost made her 
gasp. 

“You would !” 

“It would be an honour.” 

Avice flushed with pleasure. 

There was a silence, during which Avice noticed out of 
the corners of her eyes that her companion touched his 
forehead with the fingers of his right hand; apparently 
this was characteristic, for she had seen the same thing 
at the dance, and while he had talked to Miss Soulsby. 

Conversation dragged; but Avice did not mind in the 
least: she repeatedly told herself how much he differed 
from the Earl’s Court male of her species, and with a 
difference which appealed to her a lot: he was not one of 
the would-be smart men, who wore their hair close-cropped ; 
worried over their ties; and contrived to get creases upon 
their trousers until they were discarded, by putting them 
under the bed: he was above everything of that sort; 
and while they lived to keep up appearances by adorning 
their bodies, all he cared for was to cultivate the great 
gifts with which he had been endowed. 

Moreover, Avice was aware of a subtle sympathy be- 
tween them: this made her indifferent whether he was 
silent or otherwise; perhaps of the two she preferred him 
to be tongueless; this enabled her to luxuriate in her new 
emotion. 

“Tell me of yourself,” he said presently, and with a 
touch of graciousness in his voice which hinted that she 
was being greatly indulged. 

“Please!” she protested. 


82 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


'T wish to know.” 

«But ” 

Pinnick was ruthless, and asked: 

‘‘Are you married?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought so. Was your husband at the dance?” 
“Yes.” 

“Did he dance with you ?” 

“No.” 

“I should like to see him.” 

“I daresay he will be here presently.” 

“To see if he is worthy of you.” 

It was delightful to be put on a pedestal, and by such 
an exceptional man as Mr. Pinnick; and as she thought 
of Leonard, her husband suffered in comparison : he was 
so ordinary (Avice rejected “commonplace” that came into 
her mind) and humdrum; and never dreamed of saying 
charming things. 

“Are you happy ?” was his next question. 

“Fairly.” 

Pinnick sighed, and Avice glanced at him. 

“How sorry I am!” 

“Why?” 

“That you are not as happy as you should be.” 

“Are you?” 

“I was.” 

This was still more delightful. 

“Why aren’t you now ?” asked Avice in a low voice. 

“I’ve had rather bad luck lately.” 

“I’m sorry. In what way?” 

“It wouldn’t interest you.” 

“But it would ; really it would. Tell me.” 

“With my art.” 

This was flatly disappointing: nevertheless, this concern 
for what he called his art, in making him more aloof, en- 
hanced his value in her eyes. 

“Tell me.” 

“You would care to know?” 

“Of course,” she replied with quiet conviction. 

“I am ‘up against’ the ‘Ring.’ ” 

“The what!” 


MRS. GIBBARD’S MONDAY 


83 


*^The ^Ring.’ Don't you know what that means?" 

‘‘You’ll think me awfully ignorant, but ’’ 

“Don’t you know that all the big writers, that is, those 
who have been ‘log-rolled’ into being big, are bound to- 
gether to resist the encroachment of new g — talent?’’ 
asked Pinnick with a heat that suggested he quite believed 
what he said. 

“Is that so?’’ 

“And that, unless one has very powerful inside influ- 
ence, a writer of any promise is ruthlessly kept in the 
background !’’ 

“You surprise me.’’ 

“It’s none the less a fact. I know what I’m talking 
about, as I’m one of the victims of the ‘Ring.’ ’’ 

“What a shame !’’ cried Avice, who burned with righteous 
wrath. 

“Take my last book, for instance. I know it was per- 
fectly written: I spent months in writing and rewriting; 
and as for the stuff in it, well — that goes without saying.’’ 

“Yes," from Avice as her companion paused; and once 
more put the fingers of one hand to his forehead. 

“What was the result? It was decided I had been 
getting along too fast, and ’’ 

“Well !’’ 

He did not reply, and Avice perceived he was staring 
directly and apprehensively in front of him at Mrs. Gib- 
bard, who appeared undecided whether or no she should 
introduce a woman she was with to Mr. Pinnick: she 
relented, whereupon the victim of the ‘Ring’ said to 
Avice : 

“So many more people want to meet me, we may be 
separated any moment." 

Avice bit her lip; he went on: 

“And I’m so interested in you. I want to see if there 
isn’t a way for us to meet." 

“I suppose you will come here again !" 

“Mrs. Gibbard talks of going away for a month." 

“Oh !" blankly from Avice. 

“Do you know the Boscombe-Milderoys who live in 
Earl’s Court?" 

“Quite well. Some of them were at the dance." 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


84 

going to their next ‘Wednesday/ Will you be 

there 

“ni tryr 

“It’s in the afternoon/’ 

“Then I can certainly manage it/’ 

“That’s a promise!” 

Avice, who feared she had been too precipitate, said: 
“Trevor Boscombe-Milderoy has gone on the stage.” 

“I was delighted to hear it.” 

“That is more than his parents are.” 

“I’m afraid Earl’s Court has no feeling for art.” 

“They were interrupted just then; but not by Mrs. 
Gibbard. 

Joyce came over to say that Leonard had come; had 
been shown downstairs by the discerning maid; was now 
with her father; and wanted to know if Avice were ready 
to go home. 

Her hand lingered in Mr. Pinnick’s as she shook hands 
with him: and because of the deep impression he had 
made on her, she greeted her husband with unusual 
warmth. 


CHAPTER VII 


A prodigal's return 

“What are you doing to-day, dear?" 

“Nothing in particular. Why?" 

“I was wondering why you don’t go and see Mrs. Syl- 
vester sometimes," said Leonard. As she did not reply, 
he went on : “Rene’s very fond of you." 

“I can’t help that," returned Avice pettishly. 

“Avice !’’ 

“Rene bores me.’’ 

“Bores you!" 

“She’s always so full of herself and her husband." 

“I should have thought you would have found it a 
welcome change to some of our friends," remarked Leonard. 

“One can have too much of a good thing." 

«Still 1" 

“Still what !’’ 

“You know how she’s situated." 

“She’s much better off than we can ever hope to be." 

“Money isn’t everything." 

“It’s a good deal." 

“Take her case; she’s worried out of her life by her 
husband and ’’ 

“One can’t have all the plums of life." 

“But he seems to get worse and worse. It’s doing her 
a kindness to see her occasionally, and take her out of 
herself." 

“I’ll look in sometime," said Avice, who had no inten- 
tion of going on an afternoon on which she was otherwise 
engaged. 

“Thank you, dear." 


85 


86 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


“You seem very interested in the Sylvesters/* 
“Naturally/* 

“Naturally!** 

“They’re so fond of you.** 

Leonard rose from the breakfast table and made as if 
to go : Avice still sat and with her eyes on her plate. 
“What about your library book?” asked Leonard. 

“What about it?** 

“What book shall I get you?** 

Avice shrugged her shoulders. 

“Shall I get you Joseph Conrad*s new book?*’ 

“Who’s he?” 

“About the best man who’s writing fiction nowadays.*' 
“One of the 'Ring’,” remarked Avice contemptuously. 
“The ‘Ring I’ What’s that?” 

“Surely you know ** 

“But I don’t.” 

“You must surely know that all the well-known writers 
combine together to keep back any man who shows re- 
markable promise,” said Avice, who knew all the contempt 
a woman feels for the man who is less well-informed than 
herself. 

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” 

“It’s none the less a fact.” 

“Who told you?” 

“I heard it,” she remarked nonchalantly. 

“There’s a man I know, who’s uncle is ‘James Miall.* 
I met him once, and he said he got where he is by sheer 
hard work; and that any man who is really any good can 
sooner or later make his mark.” 

“The sort of thing a successful man would say.” 

“It’s no more fair to say that than to say that all that 
talk about the ‘Ring* is said by men who aren’t smart 
enough to get there !” 

“Just like a man,” she remarked scornfully: woman- 
like she was annoyed by a just statement of fact, and 
more particularly since it reflected on a man who appealed 
to her a lot. 

“How do you mean?” smiled Leonard. 

“To say nasty things about a man just because he is 
‘down.* ** 


A PRODIGAL’S RETURN 


87 


*T didn’t say anything about any particular man.” 

“Oh, yes, you did.” 

“Unless the greater includes the less.” 

“Still ” 

“Anyway, it’s not worth wrangling about,” remarked 
Leonard, who stooped to give his wife his perfunctory 
morning kiss before he left for the day. 

She did not raise her lips, so he kissed her on the head. 

Irma had left for school some ten minutes back; directly 
Avice was alone, she took the copies of the Suffragette 
Miss Soulsby had sent her from their hiding-place, and 
again fell to studying their contents. 

Water had flowed under the bridge with Avice since 
she had received Miss Soulsby’s bulky parcel: much that 
had been hid or partly understood was now revealed in 
its nakedness. 

She, in common, with the rest of her sex, was no longer 
the object of chivalrous regard from men and did not 
enjoy exceptional privileges on account of her being the 
weaker vessel as she had been silly enough to believe. 

Miss Soulsby’s “literature” had changed all that: and 
like M. Jourdain, who had talked prose all his life without 
knowing it, she had been a miserable bondslave, and quite 
unaware of the fact. 

She had known that women who worked hard for a 
wage received much less than a man in the same occupa- 
tion : that, with the exception of medicine, the learned pro- 
fessions were the exclusive prerogative of men. 

She had also been aware that in a family of middling 
means, the girls had often to go short in order that the boys 
might be better equipped for the struggle that lay ahead. 

Now she knew that man was the calculating tyrant: 
his womenfolk, mere chattels; that all the consideration 
he gave them was only so much sorry make-believe in 
order to keep them in subjection for his own selfish ends. 

She had read, and was in the mood to believe it, that 
woman was cleverer, more moral than man; that man 
was aware of this superiority, and fettered her with laws 
of his own making; customs of his own contriving in order 
that he should not be found out. 

And that all the crime, poverty, immorality, disease, 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


and wrong-doing which disfigure the world could, as with 
the touch of a magician’s wand, be removed if woman 
had the Vote and could influence the making of the laws. 

Womanlike, Avice cared more for the concrete than the 
abstract, and sedulously applied all she had read to her- 
self and husband. 

If all she had read were true (she had infrequent doubts) 
Leonard had bought her in the marriage market; bought 
her body and soul in return for her keep. 

Unless he behaved flagrantly, she was flesh of his flesh, 
bone of his bone till death did them part; he had merely 
to clothe her; feed her; and provide a roof over her head, 
duties which were insignificant compared to her part of 
the unequal bargain. 

She had to look after his home; be his plaything while 
he was well ; cherish him in sickness ; more or less do what 
she was told; and generally strive her best to please him 
in all things. 

No wonder Avice had been peevish with Leonard for 
the last few days, and had been impossible to please. 

Of course, love redeemed the compact, and could make 
such abnegation of self a lasting delight; but was Leonard’s 
love for her great enough to justify her sacrifice? 

Avice again fell to brooding on their domestic relations: 
his perfunctory, almost listless, attentions; his hateful lack 
of demonstrativeness; his way of taking everything as a 
matter of course. 

And yet, should they be separated for a few days, as 
was sometimes the case, he would write letters that ex- 
pressed the most ardent love. 

It was so contradictory, she could not make it out at all. 

If only he would take her in his arms ; tell her how much 
she was to him; and make her, even if brutality were 
necessary, love him with a great passion. 

Her thoughts insensibly shaded to Aubrey Pinnick: she 
had not received the books he had said he would give her, 
but she was to meet him at Mrs. Boscombe-Milderoy’s in 
the afternoon. 

And if she were to get away early enough to be back by 
the time Leonard was home, she must turn to with a will. 

At something after three, Avice, who had dressed most 


A PRODIGAL’S RETURN 


89 

carefully for the occasion, set out: it was later than she 
had meant to start (she had had bother with her hair) 
but she had not far to walk, and counted on spending an 
hour or so near, or with, Mr. Pinnick. 

She had seen him in the evening, and wondered how he 
would appeal to her in daylight, a scrutiny she did not 
fear for herself : her white skin was independent of femi- 
nine artifice for improving, or otherwise, the complexion. 

She was, as it were, not a little unhinged by all she had 
read in the columns of the Suffragette: she had not got 
used to the new point of view, and however much she 
might try to believe in the gospel that was being preached, 
there were times when the old habits of thought obtained 
the upper hand. 

Avice had not forgotten, could not forget, the sympathy 
that had existed between her new friend and herself : 
further experience of this would, doubtless, soothe her, 
and give her the mental ease of which she was in need. 

But for the chance of meeting him, nothing would have 
dragged her to the Boscombe-Milderoys’ : although they 
were socially irreproachable (was there not a Lady Merrow, 
who was an aunt by marriage of the head of the house?) 
they belonged to the stuiTy church set, which shied at the 
ritual of St. Cuthbert’s, and attended a shabby church, 
where there were no deliciously thrilling ceremonies, on 
the confines of the Pale. 

Almost before Avice had got inside the drawing-room, 
she knew that something unusual was toward: there was 
a suggestion of significance about the maid who, in a 
new cap and apron, had answered the door : the atmosphere 
of the house seemed impressive; the hum of conversa- 
tion, which met her ears as she went up the stairs, sub- 
dued. 

Avice, who was weighed down by apprehensions she 
could not account for, shook hands with her hostess; even 
as she did so, she intuitively knew that Mr. Pinnick had 
arrived and expected her. 

Mrs. Boscombe-Milderoy was a fragile, fluffy little thing, 
whose auburn hair was black at the roots; she played 
sentimental parts in the plays that were sometimes ar- 
ranged for church and other charities ; and in so doing, had 


90 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


no idea she was pickling a rod for her own back in giving 
her eldest son, Trevor, a taste for the stage. 

She was tricked out in a showy frock, and informed 
Avice in a voice she tried to make casual that Lady Merrow 
was expected. 

‘Tndeed!’' from Avice, who was not in the mood to be 
impressed. 

“You have met her, have you not?” 

“I can’t remember.” 

“Surely you’d remember if you had been introduced, 
dear!” 

“I might; might not. I haven’t much of a memory.” 

“Well — don’t go, dear” (Avice had made as if to leave 
her). “I’m in rather a fix, and I want you to help me so 
far as you can.” 

“Of course, dear; what is it?” 

“Lady Merrow is rather narrow; and is very fond of 
dear Trevor; and we haven’t yet told her he’s gone bn the 
stage.” 

“Is that so?” 

“And she knows all sorts of big people, and when she 
wrote to say she was coming, she said she was going to 
speak to one of two of her friends, and try and give Trevor 
a lift.” 

“Hadn’t you better tell her?” 

“I simply daren’t.” 

“Daren’t?” 

“She’d never forgive it, and I believe she’ll remember 
him in her will.” 

“She’s bound to know sometime.” 

“I know. I simply haven’t the pluck. Promise me 
if you speak to her, you won’t mention it.” 

“Of course, I won’t.” 

“Thank you, dear. I’ve told everyone not to, and I 
hope no one will make a mistake, and 'give it away.’ ” 

Avice wanted to look about her and discover where 
Mr. Pinnick might be, so moved away; in so doing, she 
encountered Sylvia Boscombe-Milderoy, the daughter of 
the house. 

Sylvia was by no means so pretty as her name ; she had 
taken up, and not been anything of a success in, theatricals, 


A PRODIGAL’S RETURN 


91 


where she had been allotted old women’s parts, parts for 
which she had “made up” as young as she dared; and 
was now undecided what to be at next in order to dis- 
tinguish her from the ruck; she was in the critical late 
twenties and was debating whether or no to go in for 
church work. 

In her heart of hearts she was sorry to leave the local 
stage; she had been in the habit of returning home from 
the performances without removing the paint and powder 
from her face; and in her innocence, cherished memories 
of divers men, who had stared at her as she had passed; 
and on two occasions, on which she had been separated 
from her friends, had dogged her footsteps. 

“How are you, dear Mrs. Dale?” she began. “I do so 
want to have a chat with you. Let’s sit here.” 

Avice, after glancing at the chairs, was nothing loth; 
she could command a fair view of the largish room, and 
would then be enabled to espy Mr. Pinnick. 

“How are dear Irma, and your husband?” asked Sylvia 
as they sat: before Avice could reply, she went on — 
“Isn’t this all dreadful?” 

“Isn’t what dreadful?” 

“Trevor going on the stage.” 

“I should have thought you would have got used to it 
by now,” said Avice, whose eyes were here, there, and 
everywhere in their search for Mr. Pinnick. 

“I suppose mother told you about Lady Merrow?” 

“She did tell me something.” 

“If Aunt Jane asks for Trevor, as she’s certain to do, I 
don’t know what will happen.” 

“Won’t she think he’s at work?” 

“He used to get home about five.” 

Yes, there was Mr. Pinnick; he was away in a corner, 
and looking very bored in the company of an elderly 
woman who was apparently laying down the law at length. 

Avice was a trifle depressed by the impression she caught 
of him: he had looked unusual at the dance; quite in his 
element at Mrs. Gibbard’s; to-day and in spite of his 
shapely head, he appeared at something of a disadvantage 
amongst the others: it may have been that his almost 
studied untidiness struck a jarring note against the neatly 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


92 

turned out throng: perhaps there was a deeper cause for 
the discordance ; a further spell of bad luck with his 
writings might have dismally affected his personality. 

Sylvia talked local gossip, and presently Avice caught 
Mr. Pinnick’s eyes: she bowed, and he returned her salu- 
tation, whereupon Sylvia, who had noticed what had hap- 
pened, said: 

“You know cousin Aubrey?” 

“He is a cousin of yours?” returned Avice off-handedly. 

“Distant. He hardly ever comes; and it was a surprise 
to see him to-day.” 

Avice could have furnished an explanation of his pres- 
ence, but she said : 

“I met him at Mrs. Gibbard’s.” 

“The sort of place you would meet him at,” remarked 
Sylvia with some contempt in her voice. 

“What do you mean?” asked Avice; she had secretly 
fired at the reflection upon her friend. 

“Well, you know the sort of funny people you meet 
there ?” 

“I thought one met very clever people.” 

“I suppose they’re all right in their own way.” 

“Mr. Pinnick writes, doesn’t he?” asked Avice, in a 
voice she strove to make casual: she was athirst to learn 
all she might of her new friend. 

“Thinks he does.” 

“I thought he was rather well known?” 

“Maybe. But all his people are very sore about it.” 

“Surely the man can earn his living in the way it pleases 
him best,” said Avice tartly. 

“But what sort of a living?” 

“Money isn’t everything.” 

“It’s a good deal from their point of view.” 

“Writing might be the only thing he can do.” 

“Not in his case. Look, there’s Mrs. Howard-Farmar !” 

“Indeed!” interrupted Avice. “But it’s conceivable ” 

“She’s wearing purple ; the worst colour in the world for 
her.” 

“I was thinking of Mr. Pinnick.” 

Sylvia glanced at Avice, and said: 

“I’ll tell you if you’re interested in him.” 


A PRODIGAUS RETURN 


93 

‘T wasn’t aware that I was,” remarked Avice noncha- 
lantly. 

“You may as well know.” Avice was all attention. 
“His mother was left badly oif; and an old friend of the 
family got him into some business where, if he had stuck 
to it, he had excellent prospects.” 

“Didn’t he?” 

“Only for a year or two. He gave it up for writing.” 

“I suppose he thought of his art.” 

“He might have thought of his mother.” 

“But he might make a great success, and make a great 
name and a lot of money.” 

“He has done nothing to speak of so far.” 

Avice was about to mention the formidable obstacle of 
the “Ring”: on second thoughts, she considered it wiser 
not to say any more of Mr. Pinnick. 

Sylvia’s poor opinion disposed Avice in his favour, and 
more than wiped out memories of the unfavourable im- 
pression he had made; since others who did not, could 
not, appreciate him, were inclined to cast stones at him, 
it was incumbent on his friends, who could see eye to eye 
with him, to assist him with their sympathy. 

Avice did not dare to urge what was in her mind: her 
enforced silence stimulated the regard in which she held 
Mr. Pinnick. 

They were both anxious to meet; and took advantage 
of the diversion caused by the entrance of Lady Merrow 
to come together; directly their hands touched, Avice was 
again conscious of the sympathy that existed between them. 

“I am so glad,” said Pinnick. 

Avice, whose eyes had been on the ground, raised them 
for a moment, and met his, as she said : 

“I scarcely expected you.” 

“If you only knew!” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What a lot it would have taken to have prevented my 
coming.” 

“You might have been writing.” 

Pinnick made a gesture of protest. 

“And that always comes first with an author.” 

“Not on this occasion.” 


94 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


The sincerity, if not something more, in his voice, de- 
lighted Avice: they sought a secluded seat: this was not 
difficult as most of the callers were converging on the big 
gun of the afternoon. 

“And what have you been doing all this time?’^ asked 
Pinnick. 

“Long time?” she queried. 

“Since I saw you.” 

“It’s only a week or so.” 

“It’s been a very long time to me.” 

“I’ve been rather busy,” said Avice, who had flushed with 
pleasure. 

“May I ask what with?” 

“Nothing out of the way. What have you been doing?” 
“Dreaming.” 

“Not working?” 

“Work has been impossible.” 

It was unnecessary for Avice to ask what had kept him 
from writing. 

A short silence was broken by her saying in a low voice : 
“I’ve been expecting to hear from you.” 

“Surely not?” 

“You promised to send me your books.” 

“I didn’t dare.” 

“Dare?” 

“To think you were sufficiently interested in me to care 
to have them.” 

She gave him the ghost of a reproachful glance, and 
said : 

“I put one of them down on my library list.” 

“Which?” 

“I — I didn’t exactly know the names ” 

“Not?” 

“So I put down ‘any book of Aubrey Pinnick’s.' ” 

“Which did you get?” 

“I didn’t get one.” 

“They were all out?” quickly from Pinnick. 

“Of course,” said Avice, who was aware she had un- 
wittingly rubbed her friend the wrong way. 

“What did they send you?” 

“One of Kipling’s. The ” 


A PRODIGAL’S RETURN 


95 


'‘Kipling!’’ cried Pinnick impatiently. 

“Don’t you like him?” 

“He’s absurdly overrated.” 

“It’s my husband who’s so fond of him.” 

This was said with a spice of contempt. 

Pinnick looked questioningly at her, and said in a low 
voice : 

“You are not happy at home!” 

“How did you know?” 

“Then you are not?” 

She was momentarily conscious of his sympathy; mo- 
mentarily, because his annoyance at the mention of Kipling 
again got the better of him. 

“It’s extraordinary to me how people rave over Kip- 
ling,” he cried. “Of course, one can’t deny he’s done some 
passable stuff, but it’s the subjects he selects which exas- 
perates me.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Making heroes of mere soldiers; administrators; sea- 
men ; those who do the rough and tumble work of the 
world. To my mind, the only people who matter are the 
thinkers, thinkers who express themselves in faultless 
prose.” 

“Of course,” agreed Avice. 

She did not quite understand what he was driving at: 
but he was much put out, and she wished to soothe him 
so that the conversation might be diverted into more inti- 
mate channels. 

“There is more food for the mind in a page of Ruskin 
or Pater than in every line Kipling has ever written,” 
continued Pinnick. “I suppose your husband does not read 
Pater?” 

“Not to my knowledge,” returned Avice, who had never 
heard of Pater herself. 

“If he’s keen on Kipling, I can ‘place’ him.” 

This suggestion of superiority further impressed Avice 
in Pinnick’s favour: she, like most of her sex, took a man 
at his own valuation. 

“So you had not forgotten me?” he remarked after a 
short silence. 

She gave him a timid glance. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


96 

^‘To remember I had not sent you my books !’’ he went on. 

''I was looking forward to getting them.” 

“Now I shall have no compunction in sending them.” 

“I hope you will,” she said, and so wistfully as to make 
him look at her with inquiring eyes. 

“I’m rather lonely — sometimes,” she admitted. 

“Poor little girl! Poor little girl!” he murmured: she 
was once more aware of his intense sympathy; this time, 
it seemed to stir hitherto unplumbed deeps within her. 

She was a little frightened, and said rather off- 
handedly : 

“Pm all right.” 

“I understand,” he continued as before. 

“Do you?” she asked under her breath. 

“I understand: I quite understand.” 

Once more something stirred within her : she was about 
to reply, what, she did not know; probably the first thing 
which came into her head; but she perceived Sylvia’s 
prying eye upon her, forebore, and looked hard at Lady 
Merrow. 

“Don’t you think I understand you ?” asked Pinnick, who 
had also noticed they were being watched ; and who affected 
concern for his boots. 

“I think you ” Pinnick made the ghost of a move- 

ment. “I know you do.” 

Avice was relieved that a tense moment was broken by 
his saying: 

“Let me get you some tea.” 

She inclined her head ; and took care not to let her eyes 
stray in the direction of his tall figure. 

The head of the house entered the room and attracted 
Avice’s attention ; she was thankful of anything that would 
provide distraction for insurgent thoughts. 

Boscombe-Milderoy was tall ; clean-shaven ; white-haired ; 
distinguished looking : he was a keen churchman, and often 
read the lessons in the church he attended; kept the 
accounts for the vicar; was honorary secretary to divers 
ecclesiastical guilds ; and did a lot of good work in an unos- 
tentatious way. 

He was greatly distressed at the fact of his son having 
thrown up a good billet to go on the stage, with all its 


A PRODIGAL’S RETURN 


97 

social and economic drawbacks; and was pained at the de- 
ception his wife had determined to practise on old Lady 
Merrow. 

Avice watched him move about the room, greet- 
ing one and another of his friends : although he was 
completely self-possessed, she could almost divine his 
thoughts. 

“Your tea,” said Pinnick. 

He was standing before her, and she glanced up: the 
almost studied neglect of his appearance gave her some- 
thing of a shock; it was once more contrasted with the 
neatly garbed men and women (of course, there were many 
more women than men) who nearly filled the room. 

She found herself making excuses for him; even as she 
did so, she was conscious of a certain disloyalty. 

His unconventionality (she had jibbed at untidiness 
which was the word that had come into her mind) and 
the correctness of the others surely stood for their several 
mental outlooks, she told herself. They were all of a 
pattern; turned out by the gross; and one could almost 
foretell with certainty what any one of them would say 
on a given subject: but with Pinnick, it was another 
story : he was the exception ; the highly gifted man, whose 
thoughts were his own; and who had the gift of setting 
them down for the delight of the vast English-speaking 
world. And if he were not so well known as he deserved 
to be, that was the fault of those who were jealous of his 
parts. 

Pinnick, who had resumed his seat beside her, made as 
if to speak; he was withheld by the almost general silence 
which obtained: Mrs. Boscombe-Milderoy had told pretty 
well everyone of her predicament with regard to Lady 
Merrow and Trevor, with the result that her confidants 
were all more or less nervous : one or two had already left. 

Lady Merrow’s high, thin voice stabbed the comparative 
silence. 

“I haven’t yet seen dear Trevor,” she said to her 
niece. 

“I’m sorry, aunt, but ” 

“What time do you expect him?” 

“Not till late.” 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


98 


‘Late !’ ” 

“He’s working- overtime.” 

“Didn’t he know I was coming?” 

“Yes, aunt. But ” 

“But what?” 

“He couldn’t get away.” 

“H’m!” 

Then, after a minute or two 

“Does he still go in for all that amateur acting?” 
“Indeed, no.” 

“Sure?” 

“Quite, aunt.” 

“Glad to hear that. It doesn’t matter at your age; but 
it’s unsettling on a boy like Trevor.” 

“Of — of course.” 

“He’s quite given it up?” 

“Quite.” 

“Delighted to hear it. I’ll write and tell him how glad 
I am.” 

Now that Mrs. Boscombe-Milderoy had, as it were, 
nailed the flag of deception to the masthead, the atmos- 
phere of tension relaxed : conversation became more 
general, whereupon Pinnick took advantage of the noise 
to remark: 

“What wonderful hair!” 

“Mine!” from Avice, who flushed with pleasure. 

“Of course. It was what first attracted me to you.” 
“I hate it!” she declared untruthfully. 

“Nonsense !” 

thought of having it dyed.” 

“Not really!” 

“Really and truly.” 

“It’s the most wonderful hair I’ve ever seen.” 

“That’s what you say to every woman.” 

“I wish I did,” he sighed. 

There was no mistaking the significance of his last re- 
mark: it put their relations on a different and more inti- 
mate plane, a thing Avice welcomed. 

“But — but — you must have met so many women!” she 
said. 

“None with hair like yours.” 


A PRODIGAL’S RETURN 


99 


‘Then you like me only for my hair?” 

“Isn’t it symbolical of your temperament? You know 
you have a temperament!” 

She did not quite know what he meant; nevertheless, 
she looked as though she did, and nodded her head. 

“Shall I tell you what your wonderful hair tells me?” 

“Please — please do.” 

There was no doubt of his being on safe ground so he 
took advantage of his opportunity, and said: 

“It tells me that, however much you may be distressed 
by your environment, you have an inner chamber in your 
heart, the door of which has never been unlocked. Per- 
haps it is well that this is so; for were there a man so 
fortunate as to be privileged to turn the key, he would 
be rewarded with the unfaltering devotion of a rare na- 
tured, imaginative woman. Isn’t that so?” 

“Perhaps,” returned Avice, while she thought to her- 
self : “How well he knows me !” 

“Perhaps it’s as well,” said Pinnick after a silence. 

“Perhaps what is as well?” 

“That you are not likely to meet such a man : as well for 
him, as for you.” 

“Why?” 

“I cannot tell you.” 

“Do. Please do.” 

Pinnick shook his head. 

“You must,” she went on. “I wish to know.” 

“Because ” 

“Yes : yes.” 

“He would assuredly forget certain things he, as a 
decent man, should never forget.” 

The intimacy into which they had drifted a little fright- 
ened Avice : with something of an effort, she became her 
everyday self, and said : 

“What do you think of the suffragettes?” 

He was nettled by her sudden return to prosaic every- 
dayness, but attuned himself to her mood. 

“Many things.” 

“So do we all. Are you with them or against them?” 

“I can’t tell you — yet. So far, I preserve an open 

mind.” 


100 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


-But 

‘Tn the abstract, there's much to be said for them. 
On the other hand, their converts don’t exactly reconcile 
one to their creed.” 

With anyone else, and at any other time, Avice would 
have argued at length with the assistance of what she re- 
membered of all she had read: her recent excursion to 
the confines of the realms of romance indisposed her to 
speak on matters that, by comparison, were flat and 
lifeless. 

She wanted to return whence she had come, but had 
not the energy to go back. 

Perhaps Pinnick divined her desire, for he said: 

‘‘Do you know you have made a great difference in 
my life?” 

“I have?” 

“You have.” 

“You hardly know me.” 

Pinnick shrugged his shoulders. 

“Do you?” she persisted. 

“I seem to have known you all my life. Of course, it’s 
very foolish ” 

“Why foolish?” 

“I may never see you again.” 

“How do you mean ?” she asked in alarm. 

“You belong to someone else.” 

Avice reflected for a few moments, until a flash il- 
lumined her understanding. 

“But that is no reason why we shouldn’t be friends?” 

“Perhaps not,” he returned glumly. 

“But is it? Is it?” 

“I — I suppose not.” 

She was quite taken up by this wonderful discovery: 
he was lost in admiration of her perspicacity. 

Pinnick interrupted her complacency, and asked: 

“Have you any children?” 

“One. A little girl.” 

“Then there is no danger.” 

“Danger?” she queried sharply: all her defensive in- 
stincts were awakened. 

“Well — don’t you see — it’s rather hard ” 


A PRODIGAL’S RETURN loi 

^^Don’t you believe in friendship between men and 
women ?” 

“Of course.” 

“So do 1. If I didn’t think it were possible, I should 
never see you — or be friends with any other man — 
again.” 

The afternoon was wearing, and the callers were waiting 
for Lady Merrow to go, before they followed her example. 

Boscombe-Milderoy, who had not noticed Avice be- 
fore, came over and spoke to her and Pinnick; he had 
not been with them three minutes, before his wife ap- 
proached to say that Aunt Jane was about to take her 
departure. 

Boscombe-Milderoy went over to Lady Merrow, who 
had got on to her feet; just as they were making for the 
door, this opened, and a young man strode in unan- 
nounced; and attracted everyone’s attention on account of 
his get-up. 

He wore his hair long; a velveteen jacket; a big, loosely 
tied flowing tie ; a fancy waistcoat ; and garish trousers : he 
carried a brown soft felt hat under his arm. 

He looked the typical hero of third-rate melodrama; it 
was a moment or two before he was recognised for none 
other than Trevor, who had unexpectedly returned to visit 
his parents. 

His untoward appearance made his mother’s jaw drop, 
and the sprightliness go out of her slim form; whereupon 
Trevor extended his arms in her direction; put his head 
on one side; regarded her steadfastly, and said in a voice 
that choked with histrionic emotion : 

“MOTHER !” 

She did not know what to do, or which way to look : his 
father turned his back on him. 

Trevor rolled his eyes; did over again what he would 
have called the “prodigal son business,” he had tried on 
his mother, to his father; and cried as before: 
“FATHER!” 

“What’s all this playing the fool mean?” cried Lady 
Merrow. 

Trevor began the same stage “business” with his aunt, 
but apparently thought better of it; after extending his 


102 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


arms towards her, he dropped them, and said, almost in 
his normal voice (he carefully enunciated his words) : 

“Haven’t they told you Pve gone on the stage, and am 
now an acforf''"’ 

A vice and Pinnick, in common with the rest of the callers, 
had followed what had occurred ; and now thought it better 
to take their leave, so that the Boscombe-Milderoys could 
have it out with Lady Merrow. 

During the general move towards Mrs. Boscombe-Mil- 
deroy, Sylvia approached Avice, and said: 

“Isn’t it disgraceful of Trevor to make a fool of him- 
self, and of us, like that ?” 

Before she could reply, Pinnick’s voice said over her 
shoulder : 

“How far he is sincere, I don’t know. But the artist 
in this country is invariably stoned by the Philistines.” 

For a reason she did not at once divine, Avice dreaded 
giving her hand to Pinnick: upon her so doing, and upon 
its lingering in his, she learned the wherefore of her appre- 
hension : the physical contact told her she was much to 
him; that he was already something to her. 


CHAPTER VIII 


DIVERS WOMEN 

Avice knocked on the door of Mrs. Gaunt’s house in Eccle- 
ston Square. 

She had been impelled hither by a letter from Miss 
Soulsby, who had had a conversation with Mrs. Gaunt 
regarding Avice; and said that she (Mrs. Gaunt) had ex- 
pressed a wish to meet '‘such a promising recruit.” 

Suffragist assertions had not lost this hold upon Avice: 
should it be a question of her relations with Leonard, he 
stood for the man-tyrant, while she was the bondwoman 
who had been entrapped by marriage. 

This had been enough to go on with, and supplied a 
congenial explanation of her discontents: after her con- 
versation with Mr. Pinnick at the Boscombe-Milderoy’s, 
however, her mind had had something more to think of. 

He had made an impression on her, and more than she 
would acknowledge to herself. 

Again, and again, and yet again, she had gone over every 
word and incident of their long talk, this more particu- 
larly during the seemingly endless evenings when Leonard 
had either read, or played chess with Mr. Merkin. 

She both longed and feared to meet Mr. Pinnick again: 
longed, because he stood for something that would take 
her out of herself, and brighten the dull complexion of 
her days ; feared, since somewhere at the back of her under- 
standing was the suspicion that to cultivate his acquaintance 
would be disloyal to Leonard. 

She sought to still the voice of conscience by telling her- 
self there was no harm in being friendly with a man; and 
had almost succeeded in persuading herself of this. 

But Avice had sense enough to see that if man were the 
natural enemy of woman, what was sauce for the goose 

103 


104 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


was sauce for the gander; that is to say, if she used suf- 
fragist teachings as a means to slacken the bands binding 
her to her husband, she was not justified in making use 
of the liberty she might seize to permit an embryo man- 
tyrant to have any sort of hold on her. 

Anyhow, owing to a maze of unformulated and often 
contradictory desires, Avice found herself at the door of 
Mrs. Gaunt’s house; on account of its size and proximity 
to the fashionable districts of London, she was not a little 
impressed. 

She was admitted by a maidservant, and conducted to a 
big, and luxuriously furnished drawing-room on the first 
floor in which were a number of women, and an infrequent 
man. 

Directly she entered the room. Miss Soulsby darted from 
a group of girls she had been haranguing, and came over 
to Avice, and said : 

“How are you, dear? I am so glad you were able to 
come. I think you will see Mrs. Gaunt presently.” 

“Isn’t she here to-day?” asked Avice. 

“Of course, but she’s holding a most important com- 
mittee meeting upstairs; and as you must understand, all 
her time is very fully occupied. But I think she will find 
time to see you.” 

“How is the Cause progressing?” 

“By leaps and bounds. We’re now getting the men in. 
Quite four are here to-day. But let me introduce you to 
Mrs. Johnstone Fetherby. I’ll come back to you directly, 
but I’m securing some recruits. Later, I’ll introduce you 
to Miss Pash.” 

“Miss Pash!” 

^'The Miss Pash. I must have mentioned her; she writes 
all those wonderful articles on ‘Suffragist and Sex.’ ” 

Avice was conducted to Mrs. Johnstone Fetherby, whom 
she found to be a well set up, handsomish, smartly dressed 
woman in the early forties. 

“Of course, you’re one of us,” said Mrs. Johnstone Feth- 
erby after Avice had sat by her. 

“Almost,” replied Avice. 

“Not quite?” 

“It’s only just been brought to my notice.” 


DIVERS WOMEN 105 

*‘But you have read our literature’ 

“Of course.” 

“Then what keeps you back?” 

And before Avice could reply, the other went on: 
“You’ve surely learned what tyrants and muddlers men 
are; tyrants, because they’ve imposed man-made law upon 
us; muddlers, because they’ve made such a sad mess of 
things with their cruelty and greed ! And when you think 
of women : how noble, self-sacrificing, morally superior, 
more able in every way, they are, it makes one’s blood boil 
to think that, since the very dawn of things, they have been 
the 'underdog.’ ” 

“Some men are very able,” said Avice musingly. Aubrey 
Pinnick was in her mind. 

“No one can deny that here and there you can find a 
man who appears to stand out from the rut. But even that 
is entirely owing to men having seized every avenue of 
opportunity; and of having taken every precaution of clos- 
ing it to us.” 

“Still ” 

“There is no 'still’ about it, my dear,” cried Mrs. John- 
stone Fetherby, who hated contradiction. “Taking human- 
ity in the lump, women alone are estimable and admirable, 
while men are ignoble poltroons.” 

“You are married?” remarked Avice inconsequently. 

“And except on this question of feminism, my husband 
and I get on admirably.” 

“You can’t convert him?” 

“I’ve given him up ages ago. He won’t argue, and 
all he does is to grin. One gets tired of preaching to a 
grinning man.” 

“My husband is a barrister,” said Mrs. Johnstone Feth- 
erby, a little later. “Only last night he thought to score 
off me by telling me of a woman — a lady — who got off 
with a nominal sentence for shoplifting.” 

“Well ” 

“Of course, I replied, 'She’s only a woman, and ought 
to receive special consideration.’ ” 

“Of course,” chorused Avice. 

“And I actually heard him repeat our conversation to 
someone who looked in : and all they did was to laugh.” 


io6 A PILLAR OF SALT 

^'Just like them \” commented Avice. 

“Men are peculiar, aren’t they?” 

Mrs. Johnstone Fetherby went on talking; but Avice, 
beyond saying “yes” and “no,” and “quite so” in the right 
places, did not give her overmuch attention; she was curi- 
ously regarding the others in the room: she wanted to 
get some idea of what manner of women supported the 
“Movement.” 

The room had almost filled since Avice had arrived : 
there was much coming and going ; and confidential 
talking in corners: and over all was an immense sugges- 
tion of “Purpose” which impressed Avice as being some- 
what make-believe. 

The women (the men did not at all appeal to Avice) 
seemed to her as though they were socially as miscel- 
laneous a lot as could be got together: there were those 
who were well and expensively dressed, to undoubted 
daughters of the remoter suburbs : and there were dowdies 
it was difficult to “place.” 

On the whole, Avice was favourably impressed by those 
among whom she found herself : they were intent, capable 
looking, and were very, very talkative: women who by- 
concerted and resolute action might expect to attain the 
goal they had in mind. 

But there was no denying that, with a few exceptions, 
they were much of a piece in one respect : they were not 
the women who would make much of an appeal to what 
was conveyed to Avice by the word men. 

And even though men were the Tyrants, Oppressors, 
and Enemies of the Superior Sex, they were represented 
to be in suffragist writings, their attentions and admiration 
were, by no means, the reverse of welcome. 

Avice, from her youth up, had drawn men to her as 
surely as a light does a moth : she rarely, if ever, “sat out” 
at a dance; and at Earl’s Court “At Homes” it rejoiced her 
heart that she could always attract the occasional men who 
happened to be there. 

Now she was disposed to ask herself what she was 
doing in this galley; she bridled this inclination, and told 
herself that there was really no difference between herself 
and the more comely of those who were present; if there 


DIVERS WOMEN 


107 

appeared to be, it was because they were possessed by 
ideals in which she was pitifully lacking. 

Her musing was interrupted by Miss Soulsby, who came 
over to where she was sitting, and doubtless with an eye 
to capturing the support of this unusual looking woman, 
gave her particulars of those of social importance who had 
recently joined the “Movement.” 

It was the bait she thought most likely to lure Avice. 

Names; their connections; town and country houses; in- 
comes; motor cars; dropped from her lips; and if Avice 
had not met Mr. Pinnick, she might have been impressed. 

Aubrey Pinnick, on account of his occupation and com- 
parative poverty, was, in the opinion of his relations, under 
a social cloud: Avice was not in the mood to imbibe ideas 
which would have the effect of making her alive to any 
disability he suffered. 

“All very well,” she said, as soon as she could get a 
word in edgeways. “But what about brains? We shan’t 
do much if we haven’t them.” 

“Did you say ‘brains’ ?” asked Miss Soulsby with a super- 
cilious raising of her eyebrows. 

“I did.” 

“My dear!” 

“What have I said ?” 

“What haven’t you said ?” 

“But ” 

“We’re women, dear; don’t forget that.” 

“I’m not likely to.” 

“Well?” 

Seeing Avice was still unconvinced, she added with a 
sigh: 

“I do wish you could meet Mrs. Gaunt.” 

“Perhaps I shall.” 

“Anyway, there’s the next best thing : here’s Miss Maley, 
her confidential secretary. She’s given herself body and 
soul to the cause.” 

Miss Soulsby started up, and with some difficulty, on 
account of the many who were eager to speak to Miss 
Maley, brought her over and introduced her to Avice. 

It occurred to Avice that if Miss Maley had given her 
body to the “Cause,” she had not parted with much, for 


io8 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


there was little of her: she was small, thin, wiry; the most 
conspicuous thing about her was her mouth; this almost 
stretched from ear to ear, and seemed always on the point 
of making a speech or reading a “resolution.” 

And so far as mere talking was concerned. Miss Soulsby, 
and Mrs. Johnstone Fetherby, who knew how to use their 
tongues, were dumb in comparison. 

Miss Maley would start colloquially; and insensibly glide 
into what for all the world was like a platform harangue. 

Just now, she was greatly put out: some mere man 
(“wretch!” she called him) had said in public that “A 
lot of Women gave to the Suffragist cause that which no 
man had ever asked them for.” 

In order to let him know what nonsense he was talking, 
she was going to make a selection of all the pretty women 
in the “Movement,” and have reproductions of their pho- 
tographs inserted in the Suffragette. 

Instead of leaving the matter at that, she waxed abusive 
of men who said rude things about the “Cause” : everyone, 
of course, knew the lives men led; their incessant moral 
lapses ; and all the rest of it. 

Even Miss Soulsby grew weary, and turned to speak to 
a woman who looked as broad as she was long. 

A little later, she came back to Avice, and said : 

“Here’s our chance. There’s Miss Pash.” 

“You spoke of her before.” 

“She’s our foremost writer on sex.” 

Miss Pash’s ample figure would have shown to more 
advantage had she been taller; her features were rather 
coarse; and she had big, rather expressionless, green eyes. 

“Mrs. Dale; a likely recruit,” said Miss Soulsby; and left 
Avice with Miss Pash. 

“I suppose you want to learn something of the sex 
element in the ‘Movement’ I” began Miss Pash, who was on 
the best terms with herself. 

“There’s no harm in learning all one can.” 

“You don’t mind my speaking plainly, and calling ‘a 
spade a spade’ I” 

“I — I suppose it would be as well,” said Avice, who rather 
dreaded what was coming. 

She was not left long in doubt: with a relish that gave 


DIVERS WOMEN 


109 

an unpleasant point to everything she said, Miss Pash 
called a spade a spade with such vehement particularity as 
to make Avice wonder if she heard aright. 

The opposition of men to the “Cause” on account of 
their being addicted to the foulest immorality was the 
thesis of her argument ; she gave details that shocked Avice 
until she did not know which way to look. 

Mistaking Avice’s silence for acquiescence, she argued 
that, since all morality was man-made in the selfish inter- 
ests of an abominable sex, women, if so disposed, were 
perfectly entitled to throw their “caps over the windmills,” 
and “live their own lives”; that it was monstrous for a 
man, after “sowing his wild oats,” to expect to marry a 
spotless woman; that if women were all of one mind on 
the matter, they could do as they pleased, and live free, 
unfettered, full-blooded lives. 

“Well!” said Miss Pash after she had done. 

“Well !” coldly from Avice. 

“Fve made my meaning clear?” 

“Quite.” 

Perhaps Miss Pash was dimly aware of Avice’s resent- 
ment, for she said : 

“Of course, we have your address, and I will send you 
some ‘literature' which specially deals with what I have 
been saying.” 

“You will !” said Avice non-committally. 

“Then you will see I have been speaking nothing other 
than gospel.” 

“Shall I?” 

“There’s actually Mrs. Gaunt! If you will excuse me, 
I know she wants to speak to me. I shall see you before 
you go.” 

Avice was stunned by all she had heard, and did not 
take the trouble to glance at Mrs. Gaunt : she marvelled how 
a woman could talk as Miss Pash had done to a stranger: 
devotion to the “Cause” did not justify such license. 

It seemed unnecessary; indecent; and what was even 
worse, vulgar : Avice could not account for it at all. 

She did not know that to be morbidly sex-ridden is a 
persistent characteristic of numberless latter-day “Isms” 
which are harmless on the face of it. 


no 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


^‘Here you are ! Isn’t Miss Pash wonderful !” cried Miss 
Soulsby’s voice in her ear. “Pve great news for you. Mrs. 
Gaunt will give you five minutes.” 

Avice mechanically followed Miss Soulsby to where a 
woman was surrounded by a group of admiring disciples; 
a way was made for them ; and upon Mrs. Gaunt intimating 
that she wished to speak with Avice, the two were left 
together. 

Mrs. Gaunt was a mystery both to those who were hon- 
oured by her confidence (she did not overmuch relax with 
these) and to the small fry of the “Cause,” who accounted 
it a high honour to obey her lightest wish. 

Next to nothing was known about her; her married life; 
or whether she had been happy or otherwise: but she 
never spoke of her husband (it was understood she was a 
widow) ; and she nourished an implacable hostility to Man. 

She was rich ; had hosts of acquaintances ; kept open 
house to all and sundry; and if it be true that movements, 
heresies, new creeds, require a personality in order to set 
them on their legs, there was no denying that Mrs. Gaunt 
was the corner stone of the agitation that was clamouring 
for the Vote as a means of righting the alleged wrongs of 
women. 

She was a Personality, a fact of which Avice was imme- 
diately aware: its effect on her was such as to efface all 
recollections of Miss Pash calling a spade a spade on 
matters of sex. 

Mrs. Gaunt was not physically impressive; was short 
rather than tall; and her black hair was patched with 
white : but what she lacked in stature was more than atoned 
for by her firmly-set lips ; powerful nostrils ; and masterful 
grey eyes : these last steadily regarded Avice ; seemed to 
be appraising her to the marrow of her bones; and though 
Avice was unaware of it, was calculating what was likely 
to appeal to this possible and promising recruit (Mrs. Gaunt 
knew only too well she was mostly supported by superflu- 
ous women) ; and how far she would be able to command 
her allegiance. 

“I am glad to see you,” began Mrs. Gaunt. 

There was no indication of warmth in her voice; never- 
theless Avice was not a little impressed. 


DIVERS WOMEN 


III 


She murmured something; and Mrs. Gaunt went on: 

“I have heard of you from Miss Soulsby.” 

“Indeed 

“I am sorry we shall have but a short chat to-day; I 
should like to see more of you.” 

“Thank you,” was all Avice could bring herself to say. 

“As you must be aware, I meet many and all kinds of 
women, most of whom are eager, at least, so they tell me, 
to do anything for the ‘Cause’ we have at heart. You 
would be surprised if I told you how few I can rely upon.” 

“Is that possible?” asked Avice, who just then thought 
that life offered nothing better than to do this remarkable 
woman’s bidding. 

“But the road is hard ; and many fall by the way.” 

^‘Still ” 

“They lack spirituality; without that, nothing can be 
done.” 

“Of course not,” assented Avice: she could not have 
contradicted Mrs. Gaunt if she had been in the mind. 

“I see possibilities in you.” 

Avice was immensely flattered and flushed with 
pleasure. 

“I may be wrong, but I rarely make a mistake. Do you 
go out much?” 

“Not very much.” 

“I should like you to meet some of my friends.” 

“Oh ! Thank you.” 

“When I say friends, I don’t mean the women you see 
to-day. I mean people it would be interesting for you to 
know.” 

“I should love to,” murmured Avice, who was every mo- 
ment coming more under the spell of this woman’s person- 
ality. 

“I understand you are married.” 

“Yes,” returned Avice with the ghost of a sigh. 

“Are you happy?” 

think so.” ' 

Mrs. Gaunt, whose eyes had been reflectively cast down, 
turned them searchingly upon Avice. 

“What does your husband think of the ‘Movement’?” 

“He seems more amused than otherwise.” 


II2 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


Mrs. Gaunt’s face darkened, and she said: 

^‘Ridicule, and it’s a thing I don’t, can’t understand, is 
our worst enemy. Do you know any men you might 
influence ?” 

“One,” replied Avice with a lightning quickness which 
was significant to Mrs. Gaunt. 

“But is he a man?” 

“How do you mean?” 

“There are men and men, you know.” 

“He is an author,” declared Avice proudly. 

“May I know his name?” 

“Aubrey Pinnick.” 

“Miss Soulsby has mentioned him,” said Mrs. Gaunt off- 
handedly; and in so doing conveyed to Avice, who was 
abnormally sensitive where her friend was concerned, that 
the other was not acquainted with his name as a writer. 
“I gather he is in sympathy with us, but little more.” 

“That is what he told me.” 

“Do you think him capable?” 

“Very.” 

“It isn’t every man who writes who can write. But if 
you think it worth while, you can bring him too.” 

“I should love to,” said Avice, who had no other thought 
just then beyond assisting the “Cause.” 

“You shall hear from me,” said Mrs. Gaunt, and turned 
to one of the many women who were impatient to speak 
to her. 

Directly Avice was alone, she was conscious of an un- 
usual feeling of helplessness; it was as though Mrs. Gaunt 
had exhausted her vital processes: she was determined 
to devote herself body and soul to the “Movement,” 
and so far as she felt capable of emotion, was delighted 
she had found something to water the desert places in 
her life. 

She wanted to go home ; tell Leonard of her conversion ; 
and implore his co-operation. 

Avice was making for the door when she was excitedly 
accosted by Miss Soulsby and Mrs. Johnstone Fetherby: 
they had been greatly impressed by the long interview Mrs. 
Gaunt had given to Avice; thought her the luckiest of 
women; and wanted to hear all about it. 


DIVERS WOMEN 


113 

Avice had little to tell, for after all said and done, what 
had been said came to very little. 

‘‘And she wants you to meet some of her smart friends ?” 
cried Miss Soulsby. 

“So she says.'^ 

“I suppose you know who they are?” 

“No.” 

“Quite the nicest of nice people.” 

Judged by Earl’s Court standards this meant either ac- 
tual titles or near relations of Names. 

“When are you seeing her again ?” asked Mrs. Johnstone 
Fetherby. 

“I don’t know.” 

“She’s a woman of her word. Do please do me the 
favour of mentioning me to her, and my undying devotion 
to the ‘Cause.’ ” 

There was more of the same thing from Miss Soulsby 
and Mrs. Johnstone Fetherby; it went a long way towards 
bringing Avice to earth. 

This consummation was completed by the fact of Avice 
letting her attention wander, till it was attracted, and held, 
by Miss Pash : she was talking to two girls who looked as 
though they had not long put up their hair. 

From her expression, and the way she was speaking, 
Avice was certain that Miss Pash was expounding her con- 
ception of sex, and much as she had done to her (Avice). 

There flashed into her mind what her stern, upright, 
old father would have said (he might not have left it at 
that), and even her gentle mother, if they could have 
heard Miss Pash saying such things to Avice or her sister 
when in their teens : the violence of his words, and con- 
ceivable action, in such a situation would not bear thinking 
about. 

This was followed by Avice picturing her own feelings 
should her Irma be some six or seven years older, and 
should she come upon her having such revolting stuff being 
poured into her impressionable ears. 

The scales that Mrs. Gaunt’s personality had placed upon 
Avice’s eyes fell : she was in the mood to go up to Miss 
Pash and soundly rate her; and, if it were not unladylike, 
to have soundly boxed her ears. 


K PILLAR OF SALT 


1 14 

And, perhaps, because she could not thus find a vent 
for her wrath, she saw clearly what had hitherto been hid. 

Avice knew nothing and cared less for the economic 
causes underlying social upheavals : all she was cognisant 
of was that there were a million more women than men in 
the country and she now put down the feminist movement 
to “sour grapes.” 

It was true what the man who had angered Miss Maley 
had said; that women gave to the “Cause” that which no 
man had ever asked them for. 

Of course there were married women among the suffra- 
gists; Mrs. Johnstone Fetherby, for instance; but she and 
the rest of them were either soured by having husbands 
whose affections they had lost; or had made loveless mar- 
riages; or were childless; or were so bored with their lot 
that they took up “Votes for Women” as they might take 
up breeding canaries. 

They were life’s failures, and Avice would not identify 
herself with them, even for the opportunities it gave of 
seeing more of Mr. Pinnick. 

And as though to confirm her new impressions, she 
glanced about her at one and another of the women with 
whom she was surrounded. 

She could not conceive of one of them attracting 
a man, that is to say a man who was a man : most of them 
were turned out anyhow, and looked as if they had done 
little more to themselves after getting out of bed than to 
put up their unbrushed hair: “steam-rollered” figures pre- 
dominated; they were either too tall or too short; and a 
girl near by had a hole in her stocking. 

Avice left the house without saying good-bye to anyone. 

She found it was later than she had believed, so hurried 
home with all despatch. 

On getting there, she found that Leonard had come in, 
and gone out, whereupon she was surprised at finding she 
was disturbed by his absence. 

It was some time before he came in; upon his making 
his appearance, she sharply asked : 

“Where have you been?” 

“I went round to see how Sylvester was.” 

“Again?” 


DIVERS WOMEN 


115 

“If s three days since I was there.” 

“And how is Mrs. Sylvester ?” 

“Eh !” 

“How is Mrs. Sylvester?” 

“I’m afraid she’s rather worried about her husband, poor 
woman.” 

Avice made no comment, and kept her thoughts to her- 
self. 

She had suddenly taken it into her head to be jealous of 
Rene Sylvester: perhaps, since she had no intention of 
availing herself of Mrs. Gaunt’s joint invitation, it was an 
excuse, were she in want of one, to see more of Mr. Pinnick. 


CHAPTER IX 


‘Ve deceive ourselves’’ 


“Mrs. Dale!” 

Avice stopped short at the sound of the well-remembered 
voice. 

“Mr. Pinnick!” she faltered. 

“I hope you don’t mind my speaking to you.” 

“No.” 

“I could hardly believe my good fortune.” 

“Good fortune!” 

“In meeting you. Where were you going?” 

“Nowhere in particular.” 

'^May I come too?” 

Avice hesitated. 

“Of course, if I’m not wanted ” 

“It isn’t that,” she interposed quickly. 

“If there is an objection ” 

“There’s none that I know of, unless ” 

“Unless what ” he asked apprehensively. 

“I’m taking up your time.” 

“You need not worry about that.” 

They walked Kensington High Street, where the two 
had met, in an easterly direction : as it was an hour of the 
afternoon when the pavement was crowded with pedes- 
trians and shoppers, their progress and conversation were 
constantly hindered by those they encountered. 

Avice had seen nothing of Mr. Pinnick for over a fort- 
night: he had sent her two volumes of his essays, and a 
book of short stories (he had written his name in an affect- 
edly microscopic hand on the fly-leaf), together with a letter 
in which he hoped she would not take amiss the fact of 
his fulfilling his promise. 

ii6 


^‘WE DECEIVE OURSELVES’’ 


117 

She had written to thank him for his thought; had said 
she was keenly looking forward to reading his work; had 
signed herself ‘^yours very sincerely” : and that was all. 

She had not heard further from him ; there was no chance 
of meeting him at Mrs. Gibbard’s as her friend was away; 
and Avice had regretfully (at the same time, she was not 
altogether sorry at heart) come to the conclusion that he 
did not wish to cultivate the acquaintance. 

She had assiduously read the essays and the stories ; and 
although she could not help recognising their out of the 
way cleverness; the unexpected points of view they pre- 
sented; she was, on the whole, disappointed. 

But she was quick to put this down to her inability to 
appreciate good work; she disregarded their lack of human 
appeal; their deadly seriousness; and told herself how 
clever he must be in writing over the heads of women such 
as she. 

Avice had purposely put a volume of the essays where 
Leonard would come upon them. 

“Where did you get this?” he asked. 

“From a friend of mine,” she had replied. 

“Here’s his name on the fly-leaf.” 

“He sent it to me. I met him at Mrs. Gibbard’s.” 

She had narrowly watched him while he had dipped into 
it; had been not a little hurt at perceiving it did not hold 
his attention ; and presently, upon seeing him put the book 
down, had asked : 

“What do you think of them?” 

“Well enough so far as they go.” 

^Then ” 

'But they don’t go very far. They’re well enough writ- 
ten, but one’s not much further at the end than at the 
beginning.” 

Avice had thought this wasn’t so bad from a man who 
cried up Kipling: his opinion had assisted her to believe 
what an exceptionally clever man Aubrey Pinnick must be. 

A day or two after she had quite made up her mind she 
would never see him again, she had run against him in 
Kensington High Street. 

As has been said, their talk was constantly interrupted 
by the jostling of the passers-by: either he or she would 


ii8 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


be stopped in the middle of a sentence by the necessity of 
giving way to someone, until their conversation became 
so disjointed as to make them desirous of finding compara- 
tive quiet. 

“Would you like some tea?” at last asked Pinnick. 

“Very much.” 

“Good. Do you know of a tea place?” 

“Plenty.” 

“Take me to one where we can talk in peace.” 

Avice was nothing loth; she conducted him to the tea- 
room at the farther end of the arcade that leads to the 
Underground Railway. 

“I only want tea,” said Avice after they were seated, 
and the waitress stood beside them. 

“No cakes?” 

“Perhaps one.” 

“And how have you been all these centuries?” he asked, 
after she had poured out the tea. 

“Much about the same.” 

“You’re looking very well.” 

“Am I?” 

“Wonderfully.” 

Avice’s eyes dropped beneath his ardent gaze: and was 
once more conscious of the exquisite sympathy which ex- 
isted between them. 

She was aware he continued to look at her, and she knew 
that, though she had not seen him, he had by no manner 
of means forgotten her. 

“What have you been doing with yourself ?” she asked in 
a low voice and without looking up. 

“Trying to do what I usually do.” 

“Writing?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why has it been ^trying’?” 

“It hasn’t been very easy,” he said; and added a 
moment or two later — “I’ve had a good deal to think 
about.” 

There was no occasion to ask what had been in his mind. 

“And that is why I’m thinking of going away,” he 
added. 

“Going away !” she asked sharply. 


“WE DECEIVE OURSELVES’^ 


119 

“To a little place I know in Dorset. I usually manage 
to work there.” 

“How long are you going for?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“What is the name of the place?” 

“Abbotsbury: a village near Bridport.” 

“How soon are you going?” 

“I really don’t know. I can’t make up my mind.” 

“What are you doing in Kensington to-day?” she asked 
after a silence. 

He glanced at her, before replying: 

“Many things.” 

“Calling!” 

“Do I look like a caller?” he scornfully asked. 

“Scarcely,” she returned with conviction. 

He seemed hurt by her remark, and said : 

“I’m afraid I seem different from your smart society 
friends.” 

“Thank heaven, quite,” she declared. 

Beyond being anxious to atone for what she had said, 
she spoke in all sincerity. 

“You mean it?” 

“Of course I mean it.” 

“Thank you,” he said and simply, whereupon Avice 
looked at him in surprise. 

“You don’t know how much your good opinion means 
to me,” he said as though to explain his gratitude. 

“Indeed !” 

“Perhaps I’ve no right to tell you, but I can’t help it. 
And as I’m probably going away; and for some time; and 
therefore shall not see you again” (Avice leaned her 
head on her hand), “you may as well know something 
else.” 

“Well!” she said as he paused. 

“I came to Kensington to-day, as I have come on many 
other days, in the hope of seeing you.” 

“In the hope ” 

“Of seeing you.” 

“Why?” 

“I wanted to see you once more to discover how far you 
were like my recollections of you.” 


120 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


^^And am I different?” she asked, after a moment or 
two. 

‘T’m not in the mind to make comparisons.” 

Avice was both pleased and a little fearful at the turn 
the conversation had taken: it was evident that he cared 
for her more than she did for him; she was glad she was 
so much to him (this flattered her vanity) : and that they 
were talking, as they were: at the same time, she knew 
that she was far more concerned in what he did or did not 
do ; and in what he sought of her, than she liked to admit : 
and if she had sought for an explanation, she might have 
found it in the immense sympathy they shared in 
common. 

She kept her eyes from Pinnick; and was aware he was 
narrowly watching her. 

“Doing any reading lately?” he asked. 

The fact of his question putting their relations on a more 
commonplace plane gave her a shock. 

“Not very much,” she curtly answered. 

“Indeed !” 

“I’ve been so busy.” 

“And perhaps you haven’t had anything very interesting 
to read?” he asked, and awaited her reply with an eager- 
ness she did not notice. 

“I suppose not.” 

Pinnick shifted uneasily on his chair. 

She spoke of other things; of anything that came into 
her head (this was Avice’s retaliation for his diverting the 
course of their conversation into everyday channels) ; and 
it was obvious that Pinnick was perturbed: it gave her 
pleasure to know that she could play so easily on his im- 
pressionable temperament ; and was certain he was eager to 
tread again the path he had deserted. 

She was purposefully silent at intervals in order to give 
him the opportunity of leading her back. 

It was at one of these pauses that he began in all seri- 
ousness : 

“I suppose ” 

“Yes.” 

“You haven’t found time to read my books?” 

This was so unexpected that she stared in surprise. 


^‘WE DECEIVE OURSELVES” 


I2I 


'‘That was too much to expect,” he remarked while a 
hurt expression came into his face. 

She had no conception of the hypersensitiveness of the 
so-called artistic temperament; and was at a loss to know 
why the fact of her having forgotten all about his books 
should have vexed him. 

“Why, of course, I read them.” 

“You did?” 

“I quite forgot about them — I mean, to tell you Fd read 
them.” 

“Anyway, you have read them?” 

“Yes. And so has my husband.” 

“Eh! What did you think of them?” 

“He — I — liked them very much.” 

“Of course you would say that.” 

“I was interested. It isn’t everyday one reads a book 
written by an author one knows.” 

“You really liked them?” 

“Very much, indeed.” 

Mr. Pinnick appeared to be striving to hide the satisfac- 
tion her praise gave him: he put his fingers through his 
long hair, and leaned his head on his hand so that his face 
came nearer to hers. 

“Which did you like best: the stories or the essays?” 

“Both.” 

“I prefer the essays: I daresay you noticed how I — I 
sometimes got the inevitable word.” 

“Oh yes,” said Avice, who had no particular idea what 
he meant. 

“And I daresay you perceived the — the cadences in my 
prose I” 

“Oh I Of course.” 

“I was certain you would appreciate me,” he said; and 
as though something of a weight were lifted from his mind. 

She believed he was referring to his personality; was 
acquiescently silent ; was delighted, and with a delight 
that surprised her, she was so much to him; and eagerly 
awaited what was coming next : consequently, she was mor- 
tified when he went on : 

“Such a lot of nonsense is talked nowadays of what is 
essential to permanent work. It is the fashion to cry out 


122 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


in the market-place that humanity with a capital H is the 
one thing needed to literary salvation. Doubtless you 
have heard this even in the 'City of the Plain’ where you 
dwell.” 

" 'The City of the Plain’?” absently echoed Avice. 

"Never mind that now,” he remarked, and warming to 
his subject, went on: "I have nailed my flag to the mast 
of the contrary opinion; and am prepared to defend to 
the death that the only thing that matters is style; style; 
and again style.” 

Avice fidgeted with a button of her left-hand glove. 

"That it is only suflicient to write but one page of 
perfect prose, and one’s place is henceforth among the im- 
mortals.” 

He looked at her as though expecting her to corroborate 
what he had said, whereupon she absently asked : 

"Is that so?” 

"Isn’t it what you think?” 

"I suppose so,” she returned almost irritably. 

"I knew you’d agree with me,” he declared with con- 
viction. 

He was obviously pleased that her fancied opinion coin- 
cided with his : he lay back in his chair ; put one leg over 
the other; and his hand to his forehead, which was a tra- 
ditional gesture of the great Stephen Torrens. 

During the silence that ensued, Avice was immersed in 
a great loneliness : Mr. Pinnick’s proximity gave her an 
exquisite delight she had never experienced before, this in 
spite of his digressions into things that were a waste of 
precious time. 

She suddenly realised how dear his friendship was to 
her: the fact of his going away, and for an indefinite while, 
made it the more desirable in her eyes. 

And he had said this might be the last time they should 
meet: and as she thought of the wearisome round of her 
days, days that were barren of any hint of romance, she 
told herself that her life was indeed "flat, stale, and un- 
profitable” : that his absence would leave a gap that would 
never be filled. 

If he would only not go; and by sometimes seeing her, 
take her out of herself ! 


“WE DECEIVE OURSELVES” 


123 

There was no harm in doing this, she told herself. She 
was bound for all time to Leonard; and there was always 
little Irma to make the bond fast. Mr. Pinnick had too 
much respect for her, even should she listen, so much as 
to whisper the faintest suggestion that she should forget 
her duty to husband and home. 

Avice was so in the mood for self-deception that she 
almost scorned herself for having admitted such excuses. 

It was inconceivable that one of her antecedents, up- 
bringing, education, parts, and social position could stoop 
from her high moral state to things unworthy of the dignity 
of womanhood : she was angry with herself for having 
thought of safeguarding herself : and in very defiance of 
her having been so fatuous as to recognise a need for 
caution, she would endeavour to see more of Mr. Pinnick 
in order to prove she was above reproach. 

Directly this occurred to her, it took firm hold of her 
mind : she was entitled to a little harmless relaxation from 
her dull domestic lot; over and above this, Leonard’s ad- 
miration of, and undisguised liking for, Rene Sylvester pro- 
vided ample justification. 

And apart from all this, if Leonard saw her about with 
Pinnick, it should make him jealous, and restore him to the 
allegiance she believed he had left. 

Avice proceeded from thought to action: in addition to 
the delightful sense of adventure inseparable from friend- 
ship with Mr. Pinnick, there was the satisfaction she got 
from bending him to her will ; that is if she could persuade 
him not to go away. 

“I called at Mrs. Gaunt’s the other day/’ she began. 

“The sufifragette leader?” 

“Yes. She talked a lot about you.” 

“Has she read my books?” 

“She wanted to meet you,” replied Avice non-commit- 
tally. 

“Then she has read them?” 

“And I think she wants you to join the 'Movement.’ ” 

“I daresay she does. It can do with a few names.” 

“She said something about my taking you there.” 

“I should be delighted ” 

Avice sighed relief. 


124 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘Tf I were not going away.” 

Avice stared blankly at Pinnick : since he eluded her, she 
was all the more resolved to get her own way. 

She was about to try another tack, when he said : 

“I mentioned just now the 'Cities of the Plain.' ” 

"Did you?” 

"Don't you remember?” he asked with an approach to 
irritability. 

"I daresay you did.” 

"As you didn't quite seem to understand what I meant, 
I thought I’d tell you.” 

"Very well,” said Avice, who was impatiently tapping 
her toes on the ground. 

"By ‘Cities of the Plain’ I mean Earl's Court ” 

"What!” 

"And all it stands for.” 

"What does it stand for?” 

"The Shibboleths : — respectability ; snobbishness both 
social and economic: the worship of various base gods.” 

Avice gasped her astonishment : that anyone should dare 
to decry the things on which she set such store seemed little 
short of sacrilege ; it was altogether incomprehensible :• yet, 
at the same time, she could not help admiring the man who 
dared to stake his solitary opinion against a phase of civi- 
lisation she always considered as fixed ; immutable ; divinely 
ordered. 

"What — what is wrong with them?” she faltered. 

"Everything. They induce false standards of conduct; 
of right and wrong; and of pretty well everything else. 
To those who have eyes to see, it means a travesty of life 
as it should be lived, and ” 

"How should life be lived?” interrupted Avice. 

"By living for the things that alone are worth living 
for!” 

"And what might they be?” 

"Art; emotion; sensibility; love; things that the 
‘Cities of the Plain' either disregard or trample under- 
foot.” 

"It isn't given to everyone to appreciate art.” 

"It can be cultivated.” 

"And as for love ” 


“WE DECEIVE OURSELVES^^ 


125 


“Well?’^ from Pinnick. 

“I daresay there is as much there as anywhere else.” 

“Is that your experience — your individual experience?” 
asked Pinnick in a low voice. 

“Well ” hesitated Avice. 

“Tell me,” he said as before. 

“I — I suppose so.” 

He gave her a quick, keen glance, and said with a return 
to his former manner: 

“I shall think of all this when Pm away.” 

“Will you?” she asked. 

“A lot : more than you think !” he replied, and looked 
about him as though to summon the waitress. 

Avice was seized by a sudden impulse: he had derided 
the things she held near to her heart; perhaps thought 
poorly of her because of her sticking up for them; a sense 
of her own worthiness impelled her to make some effort to 
see more of him, if only to change his opinion. 

“Must you really go ?” she began. 

“You must be home to your husband and dinner.” 

“I mean — must you really go away?” 

“Pm afraid so.” 

“Why ‘fraid’?” 

“IPs better for me.” 

“Won’t you be lonely?” 

“Very.” 

“Then why go?” 

She accompanied this question with a glance which made 
Mr. Pinnick drop his eyes and become thoughtful. 

Avice waited in a considerable suspense for what he 
might say. 

A moment or two later (it seemed a very long time) he 
said : 

“Don’t — don’t you want me to go?” 

“Not very much.” 

“That settles it then.” 

“You’re not going?” 

“I can’t.” 

“Can’t!” she echoed, her mind elsewhere. 

Now that she had her own way she was alarmed at what 
she had done. 


126 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘‘Doesn't it mean I should see you sometimes?" he 
asked. 

“Perhaps." 

“Give me a direct answer. Doesn’t it mean I should see 
you sometimes?" 

She did not want to reply: something masterful in his 
manner compelled her to falter: 

“Yes." 

“Now I have something to live for," he remarked. 

The fact of his thus proving his appreciation of her, if 
not of something more, gave Avice heart : after all said and 
done, if he cared for her a lot, her affections were not 
engaged, so she was, therefore, on firm ground, ground 
that was not the least likely to be shaken. 

Everything was for the best in the best of all possible 
worlds. 

The lukewarm March sun seemed gay and warm when 
Avice went out into the High Street with her companion, 
and walked with him in the direction of Earl’s Court; and 
much of the savour seemed to have gone out of life after 
they had said “good-bye" and parted. 

Avice resisted an inclination to look round at the bus 
he had stepped into on taking his leave: she comforted 
herself on the way home by reflecting they were soon to 
meet on the occasion of her taking him to call on Mrs. 
Gaunt. 

She was greatly excited at the happenings of the after- 
noon; and as she came to the familiar streets of Earl’s 
Court, she knew an emotion that was at issue with her 
animation. 

It was akin to apprehension because in her heart of hearts 
she knew she had been doing the things she should not. 

She was jarred by her conflicting moods; the disagree- 
ment had the effect of putting her nerves on edge : perhaps 
this was why she was unduly sensible of the atmosphere 
of her home when she got indoors. 

This stood for her ordered, tranquil, decorous life; and 
upon insurgent thoughts of Mr. Aubrey Pinnick invading 
her mind, Avice was overborne by a great fear; it was as 
though her friendship with the writer threatened to sap 
the foundations of the house and all it stood for in her life. 


^‘WE DECEIVE OURSELVES’^ 


127 

After taking off her things, she went upstairs to the 
nursery where Irma was playing with three school-friends 
whom her mother had given permission to ask to tea. 

Avice kissed them all round (her heart was full) and sat 
on the little bed; listened to their prattle; and watched 
their play. 

Ever since the night of the ^‘Dudley,” when Irma had 
caught her mother in a lie, things had never been quite the 
same between Avice and the child. 

Avice had all too often found Irma regarding her with 
the critical look she had got to know so well: although 
nothing had been said, it was responsible for an approach 
to a growing estrangement between them, perhaps because 
Avice resented being criticised by a child, and her con- 
sequent coldness reacted on Irma, who was sensitiveness 
itself. 

Notwithstanding all this, it not a little flattered Avice’s 
maternal vanity to see that Irma was '‘first fiddle’^; she 
could not help kissing her again on hearing her solenjnly 
inform the others : 

“I’m a very great lady; a very great lady indeed. I’m 
to be married to-morrow to a very rich gentleman whose 
pockets are full of pennies : and the next day. I’m to be 
presented at Court; and the next, I shall have a dear little 
baby.” 

Avice laughed her fears to scorn as she again took her 
seat on the bed. 

Apart from Leonard, what earthly chance was there of 
her forgetting to walk the path of wifely rectitude, with a 
sweet little girl like that! What could have possessed her 
to admit any doubts to the contrary, she hardly knew. 

And as she was now certain she was so safe, there was 
surely not the remotest harm in sometimes seeing Mr. Pin- 
nick. 

Comforted with this assurance, Avice again kissed the 
children (she kissed Irma twice) and went downstairs, 
where she found her husband had just come in : he had 
been delayed by pressure of work at the office. 

Avice greeted him with unusual warmth, and went out 
of her way to be agreeable to him, not only then, but 
during dinner; so far as she was able, she put Pinnick, and 


128 A PILLAR OF SALT 

the incidents of the afternoon they had spent together, out 
of her mind. 

It was after dinner, and upon Leonard settling down to 
read for the evening, that Avice’s thoughts persistently 
inclined to Pinnick. 

She went over, and more than once, everything he had 
said to her, and she to him; she repeatedly recalled ex- 
pressions of his face; tones of his voice: and then (Leonard 
was taken up with his book and replied to infrequent re- 
marks she thought it politic to make with almost irritably 
spoken monosyllables) she revelled in the building of ro- 
mantic castles in the air, romantic castles which were ten- 
anted by herself and Aubrey Pinnick. 

And should she be disposed to reproach herself for 
thoughts that came within the category of mental infidelity 
to her husband, she told herself he deserved all he got in 
this instance at being more taken up with his book than he 
was with his wife. 

Avice fell to wondering how soon she should see Mr. 
Pinnick again: there was the dread possibility he might 
change his mind, and think it wiser to bury himself in 
remote Dorsetshire: second thoughts (these were sweet) 
told her that, in face of the ardent looks which had gone 
with his words, there was small likelihood of his quitting 
town. 

Avice was aware of the whisperings of conscience; it 
desired justification for cultivating the friendship (of 
course, it was nothing more) of an engaging bachelor. 

She glanced at her husband on the farther side of the 
fire : he was dozing in his chair ; his book had slipped to the 
ground: his mouth was open, and gave him a vacuous ex- 
pression. 

In spite of herself, Avice was fascinated by the unpre- 
possessing picture he presented: she stared at him for 
some time and was both annoyed and gratified : she was 
annoyed because he was so “hubbyish” as to make such a 
sight of himself before a fastidious wife: gratified, as his 
carelessness provided a further excuse for seeing Mr. 
Pinnick. 

Her thoughts violently inclined towards the latter: but 
being a well-brought-up young woman, she did not con- 


DECEIVE OURSELVES’’ 129 

template doing anything that conflicted with her rigid ideas 
of propriety. 

If she only dare tell Leonard of what she had in mind; 
assure him there was no suggestion of disloyalty in friend- 
ship with another man; and win her husband’s consent to 
the acquaintance. 

Womanlike, Avice preferred to go deviously to work: 
she believed, or affected to believe, Leonard admired Mrs. 
Sylvester; it was here she would obtain the extenuation 
she desired. 

“Leonard ! Leonard !” she cried sharply. 

“That you, dear?” he said, as he rubbed his eyes and 
yawned, doings which further irritated Avice against him. 

“Were you asleep?” 

“Sorry, dear; what is it?” 

She spoke of other things until she asked, and quite 
casually : 

“Have you seen anything of Rene Sylvester lately?” 

“Once or twice.” 

“You didn’t tell me.” 

“I thought you had lost interest in her.” 

“Anything but.” 

“Not?” 

“Really not.” 

“I’m glad to hear that. She’s very fond of you; and 
is always asking me why you don’t go round and see her 
oftener.” 

“How is her husband behaving?” asked Avice: she 
noticed (and was by no means displeased) that Leonard 
showed a lively concern in the subject of their conversa- 
tion. 

“Very badly, I am sorry to say.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Going from bad to worse. The last time I saw her, 
she had a black eye.” 

“Did he strike her?” 

“I’m afraid so. But loyal woman that she is, she told 
me some cock-and-bull story about its having been caused 
by stepping on a broomstick. Isn’t it all dreadful?” 

“D — dreadful!” absently echoed Avice: after a silence, 
she took her courage in both hands, and said: 


130 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


^^You rather admire Rene Sylvester!’’ 

“Do I ?” returned Leonard as he picked up his book. 

“Don’t you?” 

“She’s a woman one can’t help respecting.” 

“Is that why you go there so often?” 

“Eh 1” 

Leonard was intent on his book. 

“Is that why you see so much of her?” persisted Avice. 

“I wasn’t aware I saw so very much of her.” 

“You don’t tell me when you go there.” 

Leonard impatiently shook his head : apparently, he 
wanted to go on with his book. 

“I believe you’re very keen on her,” remarked Avice, and 
in a voice that could be interpreted as either serious or 
otherwise. 

“Am I ?” he replied, and with his attention elsewhere. 

“And if you are, there’s no harm in my having a man 
friend !” 

She waited in some suspense for his reply : upon his keep- 
ing silent, she went on: “Is there?” 

“N-no,” he returned as before. 

“Now we know where we are,” she said: she was de- 
lighted she had got what she wanted. 

“What was that you said just now?” inquired Leonard, 
some moments later. 

“I said that if you were keen on Rene Sylvester, there 
was no harm in my being friendly with another man.” 

“Oh yes; I remember now.” 

“And you said ‘yes.’ ” 

“Did I?” 

“You’d know you did if you weren’t so taken up with 
that wretched book.” 

“As if you meant it!” said Leonard, and without look- 
ing up. 

But Avice pretended to herself, and to her husband, she 
had not heard. 


CHAPTER X 


VANITIES 

'‘Mrs. Norman Butson !” announced the maid. 

Mrs. Norman Butson, who, for all the mildness of the 
warm spring day, was ostentatiously wearing furs, doubt- 
less to advertise the fact of her alleged stay in India, en- 
tered Avice's drawing-room, where some half-dozen women 
and one young man were assembled. 

It was Avice’s “third Thursday.’’ 

She greeted the latest arrival, disregarded her remark 
regarding the inclemency of the weather, and asked her if 
she would have some tea. 

“Thank you, I think I will,” said Mrs. Norman Butson, 
and took the seat beside her hostess which had just been 
vacated by Miss Boscombe-Milderoy. 

Before Avice had poured out the tea, Mr. Abercombie 
Tee, the solitary man present, had jumped to his feet and 
faced Mrs. Norman Butson with cake in one hand, divinely 
cut bread and butter in the other. 

No one could hand things round better than Mr. Aber- 
combie Tee; he was aware of this precious gift; was not 
a little proud of it; and was employed in a public institu- 
tion where it was permissible to pay a fellow-worker a 
few shillings to perform his duties in order that he might 
have time to attend Earl’s Court “At Homes” and show 
of what social stuff he was made. 

He was physically unimpressive, and talked in an af- 
fected, high-pitched voice. 

Ordinarily, Mrs. Norman Butson was “bored stiff, as 
she was in the habit of saying, by colourless young men 
like Mr. Abercombie Tee; but, as has been said, he was 
the only male present, and of late, it had been as much as 

131 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


132 

she could do to get anything more than ^^yes” and ^*no” 
out of Avice: consequently, she astonished that worthy 
young man, and made him blush to the roots of his care- 
fully greased hair, by telling him he had shamefully 
neglected her of late; and that, if he wished to be forgiven, 
he was to sit by her and tell her of everything he had been 
doing. 

For the first time in her life, Avice’s heart went out to 
Mrs. Norman Butson for her defection; she wished to be 
alone with her thoughts; hated the other people for inter- 
rupting them; and for the hundredth time regretted she had 
not refused one and all admittance on the plea of ill-health. 

She glanced at the women who were seated about the 
drawing-room and doing their best to conceal their bore- 
dom: apart from not caring one jot for neglecting them, 
Avice had suffered in a like way at other “Afternoons,’’ and 
took a sorry pleasure in giving as good as she had got. 

Avice, for the fraction of a second, was disposed to re- 
lent with regard to a Mrs. Havelock-Pelly ; she had merely 
touched her hand ; had given her some tea ; and had barely 
exchanged two words: Mrs. Havelock-Pelly was seated 
alone, and was barely troubling to conceal her yawns. 

But in the twinkling of an eye, Avice was woolgathering. 

Aubrey Pinnick was the source and burden of her im- 
aginings : where they had met ; where they had gone ; what 
he had said; how he had looked (she did not forget his 
gracious head) ; how she had felt while with him and after 
she had left him: last, but by no means least, that he was 
coming to dinner this evening. 

One way and another during the last two months Avice 
had availed herself a good deal of her fancied freedom to 
cultivate his friendship: taking him to Mrs. Gaunt’s at 
that lady’s instance had been the first pretext for meeting 
him after they had had tea together in the High Street: 
but Mr. Pinnick, who had rejoiced Avice by saying no 
more about his going away, had displayed such an ardent, 
if discreetly tempered regard, for Avice, that, henceforth, 
^e had not bothered about excuses. 

It was sufficient for her to make any sort of appointment ; 
and however late Avice might be, she could always rely 
upon his patiently w'aiting on the chance of her keeping it. 


VANITIES 


133 

Her woman’s intuition had told her he was head over 
ears in love with her. 

The devotion of a man who was so different from any- 
one else she had met was immensely flattering to Avice: 
it was exquisite to know that she was rarely, if ever, out 
of his thoughts ; that she was the one woman in the world 
for him; that, if she were free, and he were in a position 
to marry her, he would have been proud to ask her to be 
his wife. 

This was no supposition: he had as good as told her so 
times without number. 

And the delightful thing was that, whereas he was up 
to the neck in quicksands, she was on firm ground. 

There was no doubt of her safety : did she not assure 
herself of her immunity from danger a hundred times a day ! 

That she, a moral. God-fearing wife and mother, who 
worshipped her husband, and lived for her home, ran any 
risk of falling in love with another man who merely inter- 
ested her, and took her out of herself in her dull moments, 
was too absurd for words. 

Pinnick did all the giving; she received his homage; and 
that, of course, was all. 

Anything else simply could not be. 

And if she were disposed to reproach herself for being a 
party to such a one-sided bargain, she comforted herself 
by saying that Aubrey Pinnick’s love for a decent woman 
kept him straight, and was an experience that should be 
helpful to him in his work; that, if he were of a susceptible 
disposition, he might as easily have fallen in love with a 
bad woman, who might have marred his life. 

Everything was as it should be: she had no cause for 
regrets. 

Avice was once more telling herself much of this when 
Mr. Abercombie Tee’s shrill laughter interrupted her 
thoughts: Mrs. Norman Butson’s attentions and her prom- 
ise to let him take her to the Exhibition (she had no inten- 
tion of keeping it) which would soon open, had got into 
his head; he made feeble jokes; told feebler stories; and 
laughed at them himself whilst he reflected what a deuce 
of a time he was having, and what a lot he would have 
to tell his office friends on the morrow. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


134 

Avice glanced at him with ill-concealed scorn and fell to 
contrasting him with Mr. Pinnick; and with every advan- 
tage to her friend. 

The writer was so purposeful, sincere, brilliant, capti- 
vating, manly: above all, so impressively sympathetic: a 
man any woman, whose affections did not happen to be 
engaged, would be proud to love — whereas this grinning 
nincompoop — comparisons were insulting to the other: it 
was hard to believe they were of the same species. 

“May I have some more tea?” asked Mrs. Norman 
Butson. 

Avice pulled herself together and said: 

“I am so sorry.” 

“Aren’t you feeling well to-day, dear?” 

“Not very.” 

“Not! We are so sorry, dear!” chorused the others, who 
had either been yawning or about to yawn. 

“It’s only a headache.” 

“Brought on by the cold. Fve one myself!” cried Mrs. 
Norman Butson. 

“But it’s so warm,” returned two of the others. 

“To you, no doubt. You haven’t lived so many years in 
a hot climate!” 

“Shall I pour it out!” cried Mr. Abercombie Tee as 
Avice fumbled (she hardly knew what she was at) with the 
handle of the silver teapot — a wedding present from 
Aunt Em. 

“Would you mind?” 

“You’re not man enough!” remarked Mrs. Norman But- 
son. 

“Aren’t I! Wait and see.” 

Mr. Abercombie Tee poured out tea with every finicking 
elaboration of the office he had taken on himself to per- 
form: his efforts awoke laughter from the women in the' 
room other than Avice: they were at their wits’ end for 
any sort of distraction ; and were thankful for small 
mercies. 

Meantime, Avice had again withdrawn into herself : 
she was dwelling upon her last meeting with Mr. Pin- 
nick. 

Ordinarily, Avice could not get out for more than an 


VANITIES 


135 

hour or two: she had her domestic duties; calls to make 
and receive ; Irma to take for walks. 

And if anything had been good enough for Leonard, 
nothing had been good enough for her friend. 

Much of her spare time was devoted to the care of her 
wonderful hair, or to the adorning of her person on the 
occasions she was to meet Mr. Pinnick: she also paid long 
visits to her dressmaker. 

And since Avice could not be out for long at a stretch, 
and since it was necessary to escape the prying eyes of 
friends and neighbours, they walked in the seclusion of 
Brompton Cemetery. 

Avice had quickly got over the dismal associations of 
the vast burial ground : indeed, it was not long before she 
disregarded the mausoleums and countless tombstones : 
while the budding trees ; the singing birds ; the unneglected 
graves which were gay with flowers, provided something 
of a meet environment for the indulgence of her romantic 
friendship. 

Six days back, they had walked the unfrequented by- 
ways of this city of the dead at something after four : Pin- 
nick, after a silence that had been punctuated by heartfelt 
sighs, had taken off his soft felt hat, carried it in one hand, 
and had passed the hand that was free through his long 
and unbrushed hair. 

''What are you thinking of?’' Avice had presently 
asked. 

"All this,” he had returned, a reply that had somewhat 
vexed Avice: she had expected to be told he had been 
thinking of her. 

"Doesn’t it teach one a lesson !” he had continued. 

"I suppose there’s a lesson in everything, if one wishes to 
be dull and learn.” 

"Doesn’t it tell us that, since the end of everything is 
to be this” (here he had made a comprehensive gesture), 
"we should seize with both hands any happiness we can 
snatch ?” 

"I suppose most people do,” Avice had ingenuously 
remarked. 

"I don’t mean ordinary happiness : I mean happiness that 
is exclusively reserved for the elect.” 


136 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘The elect 

“Those who know how to love.” 

“Don’t most people!” 

“Only in the same way that they are hungry and satisfy 
themselves : and are athirst, and they drink. There was 
something rather different in my mind.” 

Avice had been all agog to know what it was, but she 
had had enough experience of her new friend to be aware 
that, should he once get on a subject, there was no necessity 
to draw him out: that she had only to keep silent and he 
would speedily voice his thoughts. 

It had been so in this case. 

“If those I am referring to are hungry, they count it 
the highest honour to starve,” Pinnick had said. “Their 
conception of love is wholly selfless.” 

Avice had thought how beautiful; and had remarked: 

“That is how a woman would love to be loved; if 

only ” 

only ” 

“It would be her good fortune to come across such a 
man.” 

“They are to be found.” 

“I’ve never met one.” 

“Don’t be too sure,” Pinnick had said with an unmis- 
takable glance. 

“Perhaps it’s a good thing I haven’t.” 

“Why?” 

“I’ve a husband.” 

“That would make no difference to a man who loved in 
the way I mean.” 

“What do you mean ?” Avice had asked in some alarm. 

“That, although you belonged for all time to another, 
he would be quite content to love you from afar, so long 
as you sometimes let him know you remotely appreciated 
his devotion.” 

Avice had been reassured ; still more impressed ; and had 
remarked : 

“How beautiful such a love would be!” 

“You think so?” 

“A love any woman would be proud to have.” 


VANITIES 


137 

After a silence, during which Pinnick had glanced at an 
inscription on a tombstone, she had said: 

“I should like you to meet my husband/’ 

*‘Eh !" 

“I should like you to meet my husband/’ 

“I prefer not to, thank you.” 

"Why not?” 

"If you cannot guess, I am not going to tell you.” 

"I think ybu would like each other,” Avice had mali- 
ciously continued. 

"Don’t be unkind.” 

Avice had been all contrition, and had said: 

"I could never be unkind to you.” 

"Why not?” 

"Why not! Oh! Because we are friends.” 

"We are that, aren’t we?” 

"Of course.” 

"And shall always be?” 

"I hope so.” 

There had been much more of this kind of stuff; and 
they had been so taken up with each other as to make 
them forget the ruthless passing of the minutes: they had 
delayed to leave the cemetery until some time after Avice 
had intended. 

On discovering how late it was, they had hurried to the 
Richmond Road : Pinnick had been about to leave her 
when they had walked into Leonard, who, for once in a 
way, had come home by bus. 

There had been nothing for it but for Avice to introduce 
her friend, whereupon her husband had said he had heard 
his wife speak of Mr. Pinnick; had read and liked two of 
his books; and had asked him to dinner on the evening 
of Avice’s "third Thursday,” an invitation the other had 
accepted. 

On thinking it over at length, Avice had decided there 
was really no reason why Mr. Pinnick and Leonard should 
not meet: there was no thought or suggestion of harm in 
her friendship with another man ; it was not as though she 
were in love with him, or ever likely to be: that would be 
another matter altogether: and (this was a happy thought) 
if the two men became friends, it would mean that she 


138 A PILLAR OF SALT 

would see much more of Mr. Pinnick than would otherwise 
be the case. 

Avice became alive to the fact that she was ‘At Home’ 
to her friends : that some six or seven were gathered to- 
gether : and that more than one of these were regarding her 
with curious eyes. 

Avice made an effort to pull herself together: wished 
the lot of them elsewhere ; and wondered if the hour would 
ever arrive when Mr. Pinnick would cross the threshold of 
her home. 

The door opened, and to Avice’s dismay, Mrs. Spencer- 
Paxton was announced. 

Mrs. Spencer-Paxton was in social low water in Earl’s 
Court ! indeed, it was a wonder she had any in which to 
disport herself : her husband, who was a well-to-do bar- 
rister, had married her in the long ago from where she 
had been in service at Hammersmith, a suburb in which 
she had been born and bred. 

Considering her humble beginnings, she had not turned 
out so badly: she spoke fairly correctly until she got ex- 
cited, and then anything might happen from losing sight of 
her grammar to dropping or putting in her aspirates. 

And as she subscribed lavishly and indiscriminately to 
the charities anyone put under her nose, her acquaint- 
ances gave her the qualified praise of saying she was “good- 
natured.” 

Avice had scarcely greeted her, and told the maid to 
make more tea, when she heard the brougham she some- 
times hired draw up outside, and a resounding double 
knock on the door. 

“Whoever she is, she’s having her half-guinea’s worth !” 
inconsequently reflected Avice. 

Mrs. Vezey-Armstrong was announced, and sailed into 
the room resplendent in her fine feathers, whereupon 
Avice’s heart sank. 

Mrs. Vezey-Armstrong was a Somebody, who was all 
too frequently in the way of chance engagements of the 
half-guinea brougham (cockades extra) : and was one of 
the last women Avice wanted to meet Mrs. Spencer-Paxton 
in her drawing-room. 

Away from this, Mrs. Vezey-Armstrong, who had the 


VANITIES 


139 


remains of good looks, was dullness itself, and could talk 
little beyond army list : there was a mystery in her married 
life in the shape of a husband who had married her after 
three weeks’ acquaintance, had disappeared into the wilds of 
goodness knows where a fortnight after the wedding, and 
had never been heard of since. 

Avice concealed her annoyance at what had occurred, 
and fussed over Mrs. Spencer-Paxton in the hope of keep- 
ing her quiet : she also talked volubly herself in order not 
to give her unwelcome caller more opportunities than she 
could help of giving rein to her tongue. 

All might have been well had it not been for Miss Bos- 
combe-Milderoy : she ought to have gone long ago, but 
stayed for a cup of freshly-made tea, and with it some 
more cake: she had an insatiable appetite. 

Ignorant of where Spencer-Paxton had met his wife, 
she said : 

“I had to go to Hammersmith, of all places, the other 
day, Mrs. Dale. Such a dreadful place, entirely given 
over to the lower orders !” 

Avice noticed Mrs. Spencer-Paxton prick up her ears, 
and remarked to Miss Boscombe-Milderoy : 

“It’s nothing like so bad as that.” 

“I was quite frightened to be there alone, and should 
not have gone if it hadn’t been that mother sent me to 
get the prices of a laundry. And seeing such people makes 
one wonder more horrors and murders aren’t committed 
than there are.” 

This upset Mrs. Spencer-Paxton’s apple-cart: she got 
red in the face ; dropped her bread-and-butter on the floor ; 
and her aitches broadcast. 

Avice waited in dumb despair to discover what effect 
this might have on Mrs. Vezey-Armstrong : she was not 
left long in doubt; Mrs. Vezey-Armstrong not only talked 
“army list,” but confined herself to exclusive regiments. 
And Mrs. Norman Butson, in order to support the fiction 
that she had been mixed up with service folk in India, 
chorused “Yes, dear; I’m quite aware of that,” to every- 
thing Mrs. Vezey-Armstrong said. 

Worse was to befall. 

Following on a ring at the door, the maid (it was wooden- 


140 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


headed May, who was sure to do the wrong thing) ad- 
mitted shabby old M. de Brillac, Irma’s French-master, who 
had called to leave a French child’s story-book for his 
pupil. 

He was profuse in his apologies for having intruded; 
said he felt like a scarecrow in a garden of beautiful roses; 
and it was only upon Avice pressing him to have some tea 
(she could do little else) that he remained. 

Avice soon knew much of a revulsion of feeling regard- 
ing the old French-master: for all his threadbare frock- 
coat suit, he expressed himself so happily; contrived with 
exquisite tact to bring all the callers into the conversation; 
in short, so livened things up, that Avice was half grateful 
for his coming, while Mr. Abercombie Tee was quite an- 
noyed; and particularly when Mrs. Norman Butson neg- 
lected him to speak to M. de Brillac. 

The conversation presently drifted to the crossing of the 
Channel for the Continent; to Normandy seaside resorts, 
which were much favoured by impecunious Earl’s Court 
society; lastly, to the subject of Paris. 

Avice noticed the old man’s face light up at mention 
of his beloved city ; and he said : 

‘T suppose all you charming ladies ’ave been there at 
some time.” 

There was a chorus of ^‘Noes” with the exception of 
Mrs. Norman Butson, who had been there, and simply 
loved it. 

‘‘May I ask the quarter of Paris in which you stayed, 
madam ?” 

It was all so long ago, Mrs. Norman Butson had quite 
forgotten. 

Everything, contrary to expectation, was going so well, 
as to make Avice think it unnecessary to drag in the fact 
of M. de Brillac being Irma’s French-master. 

“I suppose you do not know at all the Marais Quartier?” 

No; Mrs. Norman Butson did not. 

“It is curious. All the many English who go to Paris 
so much, whom I ask, do not know it at all. It is all 
beautiful old ’ouses which long ago belonged to nobility, 
same as is your So’o in London. I ’ope once more to go 
there before I die.” 


VANITIES 


141 

'‘Do you think you will?” asked Mrs. Norman Butson. 

“Who can say! It is not easy at my age and in my 
circumstances. But before I sleep, I should like much 
to see again the hotel of my family.” 

“Ahem! The what?” 

“The hotel of my family,” said M. de Brillac simply. 

Avice was aflame with wrath. 

Not only was this wretched old man related to hotel 
people, but he must flaunt the fact in her drawing-room, 
of all places, where he had no business to be. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE AWAKENING 

^'Everything’s the matter!” declared Avice, in reply to 
her husband’s question with regard to what was amiss. 

'T’m sorry. You seemed so happy when I left you 
this morning.’' 

"Maybe, but—” 

"But what, dear?” 

"Fll tell you if you’ll only give me a chance. First 
of all I was bored to tears by the wretched people who 
came to my 'At Home.’ ” 

"Why have them, if they bore you?” 

"One has to do that sort of thing. And then Mrs. 
Vezey- Armstrong and Mrs. Spencer-Paxton must call 
almost together.” 

^‘Well !” 

"You know what Mrs. Spencer-Paxton was before she 
married I” 

"She’s a very good-natured woman.” 

"One always says that if one’s nothing else to say for 
anyone.” 

"If I may so, dear, I don’t see it’s very much to be upset 
about.” 

"That’s nothing. And then old Monsieur de Brillac must 
come in to leave some book for Irma ; and that lunatic of a 
May shows him up into the drawing-room.” 

"After all said and done. Monsieur de Brillac is a gentle- 
man.” 

"Nice sort of gentleman!” cried Avice scornfully. "I 
should like you to have heard what he said here.” 

"Was it anything so dreadful?” 

"He actually said he wanted to go once more to Paris 
142 


THE AWAKENING 


143 

so he could see the hotel of his family in some old-fashioned 
quarter 

“Very natural too.” 

“But an hotel! An hotel!” 

“What of it, dear?” 

“Bless the man! He needn’t advertise the fact of his 
people being innkeepers in my drawing-room. — What are 
you laughing at, Leonard! If you start irritating me, I 
shall scream.” 

“Don’t you know, my dear Avice, that the town houses 
of the French nobility are called hotels?” 

“Of course I do,” returned Avice untruthfully. 

“Well !” 

“What has old de Brillac to do with the French nobility, 
I should like to know?” 

“A lot. He’s descended from an emigree who lost every- 
thing in the Revolution.” 

“Nonsense !” 

“It’s a fact. He once showed me a book containing a 
list of the great officers of Lewis the Fourteenth’s Court: 
some ancestor of his was something or other in attendance 
on the King!” 

“Swank !” cried Avice petulantly. 

“His appearance and manners are enough to show what 
he is : so if your smart friends are ‘up against him,’ they’re 
only giving themselves away.” 

“Maybe ; but I wish he wouldn’t come at the wrong time,” 
grumbled Avice, who was now angry with Leonard for hav- 
ing put her right over M. de Brillac and his family hotel. 

“What night is it your literary friend is coming to 
dinner ?” 

“To-night, of course.” 

“To-night?” asked Leonard in surprise. 

“Is there any reason why he shouldn’t?” asked Avice, 
who was hard put to it to conceal her anxiety. 

“N — no. I don’t suppose it will make any difference, 
though.” 

“What won’t make any difference ?” 

“It will save putting you out another evening.” 

“What is it, Leonard? What is it?” 

“Don’t be so irritable.” 


144 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


“You’re enough to drive any woman out of her senses. 
Do tell me what is going to happen, or what is not going 
to happen. Then we shall know where we are.” 

“You’ve heard me mention Boaker?” 

“Boaker ! Boaker ! Who on earth is he ?” 

“One of the lower division clerks at the office. He’s 
been hinting he’d like to come down for years ; so, without 
remembering your friend was coming, I asked him this 
afternoon to come down to-night, and take pot luck.” 

“What’s he like?” asked Avice, who, above all things, 
was desirous of giving a favourable impression of her home 
to Mr. Pinnick. 

“He’s rather a character.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“And for that reason he should interest your writing 
friend. Boaker is really a rough diamond. And I wouldn’t 
have bothered about him if I didn’t know he’s very lonely. 
He’s recently lost his last and only relative.” 

“Does all this mean he’ll swallow fish-bones, and eat 
with his knife?” 

“I — I don’t suppose so,” said Leonard lamely. 

“What!” sharply from Avice. 

“Even if he should — — I don’t suppose, for one mo- 
ment, he will. And — and Pinnick will understand.” 

“You must Vire’ and put him off,” said Avice decidedly 
after a moment’s thought. 

“Eh!” 

“You owe it to me.” 

“I will, if you really insist.” 

“Don’t you see how awkward it might be! Go at once, 
Leonard. Why are you hesitating?” 

“I don’t know his address beyond that he lives some- 
where in Stockwell.” 

“I give you up,” moaned Avice. 

“Avice, dear!” 

“I give everything up. Things always must go wrong 
when I want them to go right.” 

Notwithstanding this admission of hopelessness, seven 
o’clock found Avice (she had arrayed herself with meticu- 
lous care) waiting in the drawing-room to receive her two 
guests as though she had not a care in the world: her 


THE AWAKENING 


145 

splendid hair, which Mr. Pinnick so much admired, was 
carefully dressed : she was wearing a smart, and rather 
low-cut, evening frock: and to ease her discontents she 
had the satisfaction of knowing she was looking her best, a 
conviction that was strengthened by the admiring glances 
Leonard threw in her direction. 

While she had been dressing, she had been more than 
once seized by a fear that her friend might not come; 
that he would disappoint her after all : this would be a 
fitting climax to an irritating day. 

Now she was waiting in the drawing-room; and as the 
minutes passed, and he still tarried, she was again the 
victim of apprehensions that seemed to get her by the 
throat, and make her almost gasp for breath. 

She eagerly listened for the sound of every footfall in 
the crescent ; she did not know, she scarcely cared, if she 
replied coherently to Leonard’s remarks. 

At last her ears were delighted by hearing someone go 
up the steps, and knock on the front door; she knew it 
was Pinnick, but told herself it was Mr. Boaker in order 
to give herself a delicious surprise. 

Her heart almost stopped beating on his entering the 
room; and it delighted her to see that he looked quite nice 
in his evening clothes: he wore a new pair of patent boots; 
and had paid attention to his hair. 

No sooner was one fear laid than another took its place. 

This had to do with Mr. Boaker, and the figure he would 
cut at her dinner-table. 

Avice drank in every word the writer said to Leonard; 
his most commonplace remarks seemed endowed with wit 
and grace, and quite put Leonard in the shade. 

Mr. Boaker was announced : directly Avice caught sight 
of him, she had never been nearer to hating her husband. 

Mr. Boaker was short; corpulent; red-faced; common- 
looking: he wore a red silk handkerchief in what he would 
have called his shirt-front; and with this he mopped his 
perspiring forehead and bald head almost as soon as he 
caught sight of Avice. 

And when he opened his mouth to say — ‘T ’ope I see 
you well, ma’am,” she glanced fearfully at Mr. Pinnick 
and wished the floor would open and swallow her up. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


146 

It was as much as she could do to reply: 

“Quite well. And you?” 

“Nicely, thank you,” returned Mr. Boaker, who turned 
to Leonard, and said : 

“What a job I ’ad to get here.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You live in such a out-of-the-way place.” 

An awkward silence was broken by Pinnick, who asked : 

“Where do you happen to live?” 

“Stockwell, sir; Stockwell.” 

“And where might that be?” blandly inquired Pinnick. 

“You mean to say you don’t know where Stockwell 
is!” cried Mr. Boaker, and as though such ignorance was 
unbelievable. 

“I’m afraid I don’t.’; 

“It’s on the Toobe, sir, if you know where that is.” 

“I think I do. You mean the Central London !” 

“No, I don’t. I mean the South London,” declared 
Mr. Boaker shortly. “I thought anyone of any sense 
knew where Stockwell was.” 

“Then I’m afraid I’m deficient,” said Pinnick, who saw 
how the land lay with Avice, and was resolved to break a 
lance for her. 

“Hey!” snorted Mr. Boaker. 

“I’m afraid I’m deficient,” repeated Pinnick. 

Mr. Boaker tried to think of an efifective reply; was 
unsuccessful; and made use of a stock retort of his when 
at a loss for words. 

“Pickles !” he cried. 

If Avice’s spirits had sunk on hearing the foregoing, they 
went to zero at witnessing Mr. Boaker’s behaviour on 
sitting at the dinner-table, which was gay with a profusion 
of spring flowers (Avice had seen to that) and was laid 
with the whitest napery, and silver that shone in the candle- 
light. 

Mr. Boaker looked uneasily at what, to him, was the 
opulence of the table furniture, and proceeded to stuff his 
napkin into his neck and spread its surface on his pro- 
truding stomach. 

And worse was to come. 

He made a horrible noise with his lips in sucking in 'the 


THE AWAKENING 


147 

soup: a fish-bone did indeed stick in his throat, whereat 
the coughing and choking necessary to remove it did not 
conduce to his good temper; and more than once (Avice 
did not look at him more than she could help) she had a 
horrible suspicion he was eating with his knife. 

Avice could hardly believe she was in her right senses: 
she had so looked forward to, and counted upon, impressing 
her friend with the refinement of her home; and all owing 
to Leonard’s thoughtless blundering, she was, so she was 
convinced, made to look, not only ridiculous, but as though 
she was accustomed to entertaining such guests as Mr. 
Boaker. 

Again and again she asked herself if her senses had not 
played her a foul trick; and if it were not all make-be- 
lieve : to convince herself she had made no mistake, Leonard 
and Pinnick talked against each other in order to distract 
attention from Mr. Boaker’s table eccentricities. 

She spoke only if addressed ; then, scarcely knew what she 
said ; twice she was hard put to it to keep back her tears ; 
and although it meant temporary separation from Pinnick, 
she was profoundly thankful when her ordeal came to an 
end, and she was able to go upstairs. 

Once in the isolation of her drawing-room she could have 
thrown herself face downwards on a settee and wept un- 
restrainedly. 

But this would have meant red eyes, and however much 
she had lost in Pinnick’s esteem, she was not going to 
handicap herself further by allowing her physical graces to 
suffer. 

And whatsoever agony of mind she went through, one 
thought was dominant: this, that she hated Leonard for 
his share in the sorry business, and would never, never 
forgive him. 

Perhaps this resentment was the cause of her liking 
Pinnick the more because he was, also, the victim of Leon- 
ard’s lack of consideration for her. 

And she did not forget that he had as good as taken her 
part in sticking up to Mr. Boaker. 

When she was joined by the men, she saw that the un- 
welcome guest was redder in the face, if that were possible ; 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


148 

and that he appeared more vulgarly assertive : he had rum- 
pled his shirt; his tie was on one side; the red silk hand- 
kerchief was more aggressively displayed : altogether he 
looked the last man in the world to grace an Earl’s Court 
drawing-room. 

Avice glanced from Mr. Boaker (she was too angry to 
notice Leonard) to Mr. Pinnick, and thought what a con- 
trast the two men presented: the one gross and vulgar: 
the other refined; intellectual: on catching the eyes of the 
writer, she could not help giving him an appealing glance 
much as though to implore his forgiveness for the way in 
which things had gone wrong. 

Then, as she became somewhat more resigned to Mr. 
Boaker’s presence, she was sensible of an atmosphere of 
tension existing between Pinnick and Boaker : she divined 
that the antagonism that had manifested itself between 
them on their first meeting had developed after she had 
left them together. 

Mr. Boaker seated himself beside Avice. 

‘^Do you like moosic, ma’am?” he began. 

“Some,” she returned. 

“P’raps you play a bit?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“And sing?” 

“If I’m in the mood.” 

“I hope you’ll sing this evening,” said Pinnick. 

“Please don’t ask me to-night.” 

“Don’t you feel like it!” 

“Anything but.” 

“You must, Avice,” urged Leonard. “I’m sure Pin- 
nick would like to hear you.” 

“Indeed, I should ; but only if you really feel like it.” 

“Let me get your songs,” said Leonard. 

“Please I Please I” cried Avice, and almost irritably. 

“But !” 

“You know I can’t sing to-night. I’m all nerves,” she 
declared, which was certainly true. 

“Boaker and Pinnick would both like to hear you. You 
try and persuade her, Boaker; since Pinnick can’t.” 

Mr. Boaker, who had been breathing heavily, turned his 
round, staring eyes on Avice, and said : 


THE AWAKENING 


149 


course, you’ve a gramophone!” 

“I’m afraid we haven’t.” 

“Hey!” 

“Really not.” 

“Then you ought to.” 

“We’ll get one next time you come, Boaker,” said 
Leonard. 

“I thought every self-respecting ’ouse ’ad a gramophone,” 
grumbled Mr. Boaker. 

Avice was minded to cry out, “Then this isn’t a respecta- 
ble house, so you’d better leave it,” but bridled the in- 
clination. 

“I can’t stand gramophones,” remarked Pinnick. 

“I don’t suppose you can,” snorted Mr. Boaker. 

“They give me a headache.” 

“I’m not surprised,” from Mr. Boaker, who turned to 
Avice, and said: “What I like about a gramophone is 
that, if you don’t like a toon, you can stop it.” 

“Whereas if you don’t like anyone’s singing or playing 
you must put up with it,” suggested Avice. 

“Right, ma’am. You’ve ’it it first shot.” 

Desultory conversation followed ; presently, Mr. Boaker’s 
breathing became so laboured as to make Avice get up 
from the settee, and betake herself to a chair by the 
fireplace. 

She avoided looking at the offending guest: a few min- 
utes later, she saw both Pinnick and her husband glancing 
uneasily in his direction; on summoning her courage to 
follow the direction of their eyes, she perceived that Mr. 
Boaker had drawn himself on to the settee; had spread the 
appalling silk handkerchief over his face; and was taking 
forty winks. 

She looked despairingly from the two men to the man 
on the settee : and was exasperated at seeing a broad smile 
on Leonard’s face ; and the ghost of a one on Pinnick’s, who 
had not overmuch humour. 

This, to Avice, who hadn’t a rap, was the last straw. 
Leonard had insulted her by bringing such a one as Mr. 
Boaker to her house : now he must grin at her discomfiture, 
and ‘before the guest she was keenly eager to impress. 

No wonder he was driving all the love from her heart. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


150 

Avice did not know, and does not know to this day, how 
she got through the next hour. 

For minutes at a time she did not know whether to 
shriek hysterically; to laugh in derision at the way things 
had gone askew; or to insist on Leonard bundling Mr. 
Boaker out of the house. 

And to make things worse, Mr. Boaker snored ; and with 
snores that seemed to bruise and stab her nerves that were 
already overstrung to the uttermost pitch. 

Next would follow an interval of comparative relief when 
she was incapable of suffering any more ; when she was the 
normal self-possessed Avice; and when she would talk to 
Pinnick and her husband as if no vulgar guest had spoiled 
her evening, and were not snoring on her settee. 

And although she hated Leonard just then, and ached 
to implore Pinnick’s forgiveness (she could' never hope to 
obtain this) for what had happened, paradoxical as it may 
seem, she went out of her way to be attentive, and some- 
times playfully tender, to her husband: she would talk of 
his likes and dislikes : gently rail at him for his weaknesses ; 
and speak as if these endeared her to him. 

This regard for Leonard may have been the result of 
her nervous tension; or perhaps it was inspired by the 
desire to show Mr. Pinnick she was the complete wife. 

Then, in the twinkling of an eye, Leonard, and even 
Pinnick were forgotten: she was a mass of physical and 
mental pain, pain that at regular intervals (this was when 
Mr. Boaker’s snores mutilated her sensibilities) touched her 
to the quick. 

These accesses of suffering alternated with periods of 
something approaching calm: it was during one of these 
last that Leonard said: 

'‘Supposing he doesn’t wake up !” 

"You must wake him,” urged Pinnick. 

"He might be in a bad temper.” 

"You can’t help that.” 

"I suppose he’ll have to stay the night if he wakes too 
late to catch the train.” 

"Why don’t you go out and buy him a gramophone to 
amuse him in the morning,” suggested Avice. 

The two men laughed; the next moment, Avice was 


THE AWAKENING 


15 1 

again in torture : she believed she was expiating some 
grievous fault she had committed; that Mr. Boaker would 
go on snoring for ever; and that she would never be free 
of travail. 

Her next lucid interval did not last very long, for she 
had hardly regained some semblance of consciousness before 
Leonard said: 

'‘Perhaps it’s a good thing Boaker has gone to sleep, 
dear.” 

'‘Why?” from Avice. 

"He didn’t quite ‘hit it off’ with our friend Pinnick.” 

Avice hated Mr. Boaker more than she could have 
thought it possible for her to hate anyone. 

"I gathered something of the sort,” she remarked. 

"When we were alone, he asked Pinnick what he did,” 
continued Leonard. “And when Pinnick said he was a 
writer, what do you think Boaker said?” 

"What?” asked Avice quickly. 

"He wanted to know why he didn’t work honestly for a 
living.” 

This was more than enough to bring about a return of 
the anguish she had recently endured : it was worse than 
what had gone before: she was only awakened to a sense 
of things by the clock striking ten. 

Mr. Boaker sat up on the settee; the handkerchief fell 
from his face; he looked about him with a bewildered 
stare which was much as to ask where, on earth, he was. 

"Awake?” said Leonard. 

"Yes,” returned Boaker crossly. "What time was that?” 

"Ten.” 

"Only ten!” 

"Yes.” 

" ’Ow slow the time do pass to be sure.” 

Mr. Boaker got off the settee ; yawned ; rubbed his eyes ; 
stretched himself ; and was in difficulties with his black tie 
which had got to goodness knows where. 

“Shall I do it for you ?” asked Leonard. 

"Thenks.” 

While Leonard struggled with the tie, struggled because 
Mr. Boaker had a short neck, and the tie was too tight, 
the latter said: 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


152 

“Don’t wear a black tie for economy.” 

“I suppose not.” 

“It’s for Aunt Sarah.” 

“I know. We were very sorry to hear of it.” 

“I ain’t.” 

“Not?” 

“No. She left me nothingk.” 

Avice did not know how long or how short a time it was 
before she was alone with Mr. Pinnick: Leonard had gone 
out to show Mr. Boaker the way to the station. 

Directly she was free of the unwelcome guest’s presence, 
Avice felt as though she must utterly break down: she 
tried to keep a stout heart ; failed ; and in an access of dry- 
eyed grief supported herself with her two hands on the 
mantelpiece. Her body shook with emotion: she neither 
knew nor cared what Mr. Pinnick thought of her. 

Mr. Boaker’s presence had heaped so many insults upon 
him that, so far as she was capable of thinking, she was, 
if anything, more pleased than otherwise at thus showing 
how sorry she was. 

Two arms were placed about her unresisting body. 

“Don’t! Don’t, little one!” said a man’s voice. “You 
don’t know how much it pains me.” 

“I’m so ashamed !” she moaned. 

“Ashamed ?” 

“Ashamed: ashamed: ashamed. I can never look you 
— anyone — in the face again.” 

He drew her nearer; held her at arm’s length; and then 
quite close; and pressed his lips to hers. 

Avice started back as if she had been struck. 

“Don’t be very angry. I couldn’t help it,” he said. 

“But !” 

“You looked so pitiful and sweet, I had to. Do you 
very much mind ?” 

Avice did not speak : her tongue clave to the roof of her 
mouth. 

The kiss did not trouble her one bit. 

All she was aware of was that this brilliant, wonderful, 
altogether exceptional man had seen fit to forgive one so 
lowly as she for the unspeakable events of the evening. 

That was why all her heart went out to him. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE MIRACLE 

‘T can’t make it out at all/' said Leonard gloomily. 

Avice was obstinately silent. 

He glanced at her; dropped his eyes; and frowned. 
Presently, he went on: 

^‘Nothing I do seems to be right. What is the matter 
with you, Avice?” 

^‘Nothing/' she sullenly returned. 

‘Why is it we don’t ‘hit it off’ as we used to?” 

“I can’t remember that we ever did ‘hit it off.’ ” 

1 can. 

“You were always finding fault with me about some- 
thing or another.” 

“Indeed, no.” 

“Indeed, yes,” she declared. 

“You seem determined to quarrel.” 

“Nothing of the kind,” she snapped: she wished from 
the bottom of her heart he would go into another room; 
or go out : anything, if he would only leave her in peace so 
she could revel in the fancies that during the day and 
much of the night were crowding into her brain. 

“Can’t we get this straightened out?” urged Leonard, 
after a silence. 

“Get what straightened out?” she returned absently. 

“Our estrangement.” 

“Why should we?” she asked as before. 

“So we can once more be happy.” 

Avice was aware that nothing of the sort was possible: 
whether or no this knowledge would trouble Leonard, 
could he know of it, she neither knew nor cared. 

She was not in the mood for discussion: seeing he was 
regarding her questioningly, she said: 

153 


154 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


^Who can expect to be happy in this world?” 

‘‘You— I should be.” 

Avice shrugged her shoulders. 

“Why not?” he urged. 

“Give it up,” she idly replied. 

“We are young; we are not exactly paupers; we have 
the best part of our lives before us ; and not so very long 
ago we were very fond of each other: surely, surely, we 
ought to be as happy as most people !” 

Avice was mum, and stared at her shoe-tops. 

“And after all said and done,” he went on, “don’t forget 
it isn’t only ourselves we have to consider. There’s 
Irma.” 

Avice looked up quickly : did she not know only too well 
that it was the existence of Irma which steadied her mental 
cargo when it was in danger of shifting! 

“We have a duty to her, Avice, as I need not remind 
you.” 

Avice nodded her head. 

“And no one could say I’m what one would call an 
exacting husband. I’ve given in to your whims in every 
way.” 

“If he would only stop talking !” mused Avice. 

“When you’ve told me you wanted to be quiet. I’ve 
gone round to the Sylvesters’ of an evening. You tell me 
people bore you, so I’ve made a point of not asking anyone 
in; not even Merkin. And I gave in to you at once when 
you said your nerves were bad, and you couldn’t sleep, 
and that you must have a room to yourself.” 

Avice reflected how profoundly thankful she was that 
she had won her way over this last. 

“What more can I do to satisfy you?” 

She did not reply, so he repeated his question. 

“Nothing,” she said. 

“Then !” 

“Oh, do leave me in peace !” she cried. 

“Avice!” 

“You’re getting on my nerves and making me ill.” 

“But !” 

“Don’t you understand when a woman wants to be 
quite alone !” 


THE MIRACLE 


155 


*Tf that^s the case 1” 

*Tt is the case.’’ 

“I’ll go round to the Sylvesters’.” 

“I thought that was coming!” cried Avice. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t you take every opportunity of sneaking off there I 
Night after night you go there! Do you think I don’t 
know what it means?” 

“What does it mean, Avice?” 

“That you’re keen on Mrs. Sylvester.” 

“Is that your honest belief?” 

“Of course it is. You are fond of her, so don’t deny it. 
I’ve suspected it for ever so long, and now I know it to 
be a fact. Don’t say it isn’t true, because I won’t believe 
you.” 

“Avice !” 

“It’s true : it’s true : and you can’t deny it, so don’t try !” 
cried Avice. 

She was painfully eager to believe the worst of him: this 
would serve to justify the road she had taken; the road 
from which there was no going back. 

Leonard got up ; sighed ; and went slowly to the door. 

“Where are you going?” asked Avice sharply: she had 
a sudden dread of being left alone. 

“Out.” 

“But 

“Since I’m not wanted.” 

“Who said you were not wanted ?” 

“You did.” 

“You know I didn’t mean it. And you must go just 
to irritate me. Please sit down.” 

“I’m going out,” declared Leonard with unwonted firm- 
ness : she would have spoken, but he went on : “And do 
please understand I’m not doing it to annoy or irritate you. 
These ceaseless rows make me quite ill. I was looking 
forward to a quiet evening, and we’ve been at it ever since 
I’ve been in.” 

“Whose fault is it?” asked Avice, who really had some 
sort of idea that Leonard was to blame. 

“We won’t say anything about that. But if I don’t 
get exercise and air, I feel as if my head would burst.” 


156 A PILLAR OF SALT 

‘‘I know very well where you’re going.” 

^‘Eh !” 

‘‘Aren’t you now !” 

Leonard walked slowly from the room. 

She wanted to call him back ; wanted him to go ; did not 
know what she wanted. 

During the short time which elapsed between his leaving 
the room and the closing of the front door, Avice had 
forgotten Leonard’s existence: she was bemused by her 
imaginings. 

Chance remarks spoken by the man she loved during 
their stolen meetings in the street or the great cemetery, 
chance expressions of his face, recollections of thoughts 
these had awakened, chased one another across her brain : 
sometimes these would recur in orderly sequence ; at others, 
they would come all higgledy-piggledy until she was scarcely 
clear what he had said or how he had looked. 

Then Avice was filled with a great wonder and a great 
awe at the divine revelation which had come into her life: 
the veil that had hid very many things she had hungered 
to dwell upon had been rent in twain: her eyes were 
dazzled by the splendid vision. 

Hitherto she had been as one who had wandered in mean 
streets where the sun never shone; and there was never 
a sight of a tree or a bird : all this had been changed. 

A magician had touched her world with his wand : and lo 
and behold, the sun had blazed forth, and rolled away for 
ever the depressing murk ; and where there had been bricks 
and mortar were now gorgeous palaces set amidst spring- 
sweet foliage and flowers. 

And the sight of these things made music in her heart. 

It was all too wonderful for words: Avice could not 
account for it at all. 

Her thought inclined to the man whose lips had worked 
this surpassing miracle. 

How brilliant ; how clever ; and how great he was : a very 
god among men ! 

And if his fellows did not appreciate him at his worth, 
so much the better : she could have him all to herself. 

What she could not understand was that one such as he 
should stoop to notice her. 


THE MIRACLE 


157 

Avice, as now, was all abasement when she dwelled on 
his perfections, and her insignificance. 

She full well knew he loved her (any woman could have 
seen that weeks ago), but what she could not understand 
was what he could see in her. 

She was almost plain; quite stupid; not clever and lit- 
erary ; altogether quite a commonplace person. While 
he 

It was, indeed, all too wonderful for words. 

Her conviction of inadequacy made her once more hum- 
ble herself before the shrine she had set up to the loved 
one. 

She would have accounted it high honour just then to 
prostrate herself in the road; and to allow the car that 
carried her idol to crush the life from her body. 

Avice’s senses dulled: she could think of nothing; but 
was aware of a nebulous bliss which hovered about her 
and was never far off. This was the phase of her ever- 
varying emotions to which she was most prone. 

She sat in her attitude which was part and parcel of 
this mood : her chin in her hands ; her elbows in her lap ; 
and her eyes staring unseeingly before her. 

She was like this for a long time: she was as one in a 
trance; a trance from which it was possible to awake and 
contemplate beautiful things. 

And the fact of her purposely withholding her gaze put 
a delicious edge upon her anticipations. 

A vice awoke from her reverie with a start: her heart 
held a great fear; she timidly set about ascertaining the 
cause. 

There was no denying it; the power of this love was 
such that there was the possibility of its taking her, as one 
bound in chains, from the pleasant, secure places, where 
she had pitched her tent, and compelling her to walk the 
edge of perilous cliffs where she might lose her foothold 
and be cast to destruction. 

She realised her helplessness, and shook with terror : her 
limbs trembled so that she could not have got up if she 
had tried: drops of perspiration gathered on her forehead. 

Avice reproached herself for her weakness ; pulled herself 
together; and told herself she had nothing to fear. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


158 

Was she not a woman who was clad in the shining 
armour of self-respect: was she not a dutiful wife; a loving 
mother? 

Any one of these considerations was more than enough 
to make her deride dangers from without! 

And to make assurance doubly sure, Avice laughed aloud 
at her apprehensions : but it ended in something suspiciously 
like a sob. 

The next moment Avice’s confidence was blown to the 
four winds of heaven. 

She was only conscious of her overwhelming love for 
Aubrey Pinnick; a love that seemed to fill the four quar- 
ters of the earth, and reach to the very stars. No longer 
could she realise her helplessness; she was past all that; 
all she knew was that her greatest joy would be to do his 
bidding; slavishly obey his lightest whim. 

Avice was seized with a further fear; and a deeper one 
than she had known before. 

This was the fear that he did not love her at all. 

He might have done so when he had kissed her some 
weeks back ; but that was a long time ago. 

She had been a fool, and had not let him know she loved 
him in return; this standoffishness was enough to make 
any man weary of her. 

But if it were only possible to bring it home to him at 
once without telling him, it might not be too late after all. 

A thought occurred to her, but Avice was not honest with 
herself. 

She believed that the four walls of her drawing-room 
were stifling her; that the ceiling was threatening to crush 
the life out of her; that if she did not go out she would 
be in danger of choking. 

Avice did not stop to think what the servants might say 
of her leaving the house at that hour of the night; or if 
Irma might want anything of her mother : she acted on the 
sharp spur of the moment, and stole upstairs to her room; 
quietly, so that Irma should not hear; put on a becoming 
hat; spent a long time in adjusting it; and then, after 
finding her latch-key, she went downstairs as she had come 
up ; crept to the door ; let herself out with as little noise as 
possible ; and went into the night. 


THE MIRACLE 


159 

Out m the Crescent, she looked this way and that in the 
gathering gloom of the spring night until she saw the 
figure of a man steal from the portice of an empty house 
across the road : it was as though he had been keeping vigil. 

She could not see him well enough to recognise him, but 
had small doubt who it was: she hesitated the fraction of 
a second, and turned to the left, walked quickly: she 
kept her eyes on the ground. 

She bore to the right on reaching the Richmond Road, 
and then, still with her eyes glued to the pavement, into 
what was St. Oswald’s Road, but which, with good reason, 
has since seen fit to change its name. 

She did not know for certain, but had a pretty good idea 
that she was followed at a discreet distance by someone. 

Avice kept on and on; and, presently, she turned to the 
left, and so into Seagrave Road, which is one of the most 
depressing streets to be found in these parts. 

On the left was the wall that flanked a goods yard, and 
extended its monotonous length until it touched the con- 
fines of the fever hospital: on the farther side of the way 
were gaunt, stucco-faced houses, which had long since seen 
their best days if they ever had had any, and now seemed 
of a piece with the wretched, down-at-heel people who 
stole up and down the area steps. 

But it provided the isolation Avice needed: save for a 
stray cat, and one or two hurrying hospital nurses, who 
were not in uniform, she had the length of squalor prac- 
tically to herself. 

The unrelieved vileness of it all got on Avice’s nerves, 
which were already raw enough, and were thus more than 
usually alive to the impressions of her surroundings : she 
almost wished she had not set out, and began to think 
she had indeed come to a pretty pass when it was necessary 
to seek such desolate by-ways. 

She passed a man crouching in a doorway that led into 
the goods yard ; he was talking to himself : this frightened 
her, so she crossed the road. 

Most of the houses were enwrapt in darkness; here and 
there one light spluttered in the gloom; and from two of 
these rooms came the noise of quarrelling. 

She hesitated, and thought of going back : she half turned. 


i6o 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


and changed her mind; in speeding forward, she ran into 
an overdressed young woman, who was buttoning her left- 
hand glove, and who reeked of cheap scent, and was 
obviously bound for what she would have called “Up 
West” 

Avice shuddered; disregarded the coarse reproof which 
came to the girl’s lips, and hurried onward until, a minute 
or two later, she, of set purpose, slowed down. 

She heard familiar footsteps behind her, but did not turn : 
then, someone touched her arm, and in the twinkling of an 
eye everything was transformed. 

No longer was she walking in what was little better than 
a London kennel: instead she was in a land of enchant- 
ment where there was nothing unlovely or unclean. 

The stars trembled in the sky from sheer delight; and 
what wind there was was surely laden with the scents it 
had stolen from spring flowers in its journey hither. 

“Oh! The ecstasy of it all!” thought Avice. “It was 
very, very sweet to be alive.” 

“Do you mind?” he began in a low voice. 

“Mind what?” 

“My following you!” 

“Did you?” 

“Didn’t you know! Didn’t you see me opposite when 
you came out?” 

“It was you!” 

“I have done it many a night. I love watching the 
lights in your home. I say ‘she is doing this ; she is doing 
that now.’ And when the last is put out, I walk home.” 

“I’d no idea of this/’ she murmured. 

“And to-night you came out !” 

“Yes,” she sighed. 

“Why?” 

“I felt I couldn’t stay indoors. I had to do something, 
so, as I wanted air, I went out.” 

“Was that the only reason?” he persisted. 

“Perhaps.” 

He made a gesture of impatience, so she went on: 

“If I must tell you the truth ” 

“You must always tell the truth to me,” he interrupted. 
“Then you will always be what I know you are.” 


THE MIRACLE i6i 

‘T had a kind of intuition you might be somewhere 
about.” 

“That was my doing. I willed you to come out. I kept 
on saying ‘Avice must come out: Avice must come out.' 
And you came !” 

“What time is it?” she asked inconsequently. 

“Why?” 

“My husband won't be long. I must be in before he 
comes back,” 

“I will see to that,” he told her. “And as I said, you 
have come.” 

It was exquisite to learn he had willed her to come out : 
surely, if the power of his love were such, there was every 
reason why she should let him know that her heart was 
all his. And if he were to know, there was no time like 
the present. 

“I felt I must see you to-night,” he went on. 

“Why to-night?” 

“There was much I wanted to say.” 

“Say away.” 

“I can’t say it now.” 

“Why?” she asked in astonishment. 

“I’ve seen you,” he returned. 

“What’s that to do with it ?” 

“Everything. Directly I saw you, I realised my help- 
lessness.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ll tell you. At least. I’ll try. It’s a little hard.” 

Something in his voice awoke a fear within her. It 
could not be that he was going to tell her he had ceased to 
care for her ! 

“What is it?” she asked faintly: something seemed to 
tug at her heart-strings. 

“You will never forgive me for saying it; but I’ve been 
doing some hard thinking lately.” 

“W-writing?” she faltered. 

“No; not writing.” 

“What then?” 

“About you.” 

“Oh !” 

“And when I say what I’m going to say, please under- 


i 62 a pillar of salt 

stand it’s all out of consideration for you. If I considered 
myself !” 

^‘Well?” she interrupted quickly. 

“I shouldn’t be talking like this. I should be talking on 
another plane.” 

“What would you be saying?” 

“Never mind.” 

“I wish to know.” 

“Eh !” 

“I wish to know. Tell me.” 

“I should be very selfish.” 

“Isn’t that natural?” 

“Not if one 1 — thinks of someone as much as I do.” 

Avice reflected for a moment; and then said with some 
approach to apparent indifference: 

“Say what you were going to say and get it over.” 

“I tell you I can’t.” 

“Then say what you had it in your mind to say before 
you met me.” 

“You really wish to know?” 

“Isn’t it as well I should?” 

Pinnick hesitated before saying: 

“I can’t tell you how difficult it is now I have seen you 
— now we are together — but — but — when^ I am not with 
you, and am not out of my depth, and can, as it were, feel 
bottom, I can almost see what a mistake it all is.” 

“All what is?” queried Avice, who was well aware what 
he meant, and who began to wonder why the gladness had 
gone out of her world. 

“Our — our — friendship. I know it is scarcely the word, 
but we will call it that. I won’t say anything about your 
part in it, because I know, and try to be thankful that 
you are perfectly safe. You have a husband who, of course, 
worships you (no man could help doing that). You have 
a sweet little girl; a home; social position and all the rest 
of it. But — but ” 

“Go on,” said Avice in a low voice. 

“I won’t say anything about where I am. Although I’m 
hopelessly out of my depths. I’m a man, and can bear my 
own burdens; but — but — it really is so hard to say; and 
I know you’ll think me absurdly presumptive ” 


THE MIRACLE 163 

'T shan't be offended," interrupted Avice. *‘We may 
as well find out exactly where we are." 

“Well — er — it’s — it’s just remotely conceivable that your 
present liking for me might grow into a warmer feeling. 
I’m, of course, assuming this for the sake of argument." 

Avice laughed derisively to herself. Pinnick went on: 

“And — and — if this were so, that way danger lies, dear 
Avice." 

“Danger!" she echoed sharply. 

“Perhaps not with you. You’re so different from every 
other woman who ever lived." 

“Am 1 1" said Avice, to whom this information had the 
effect of restoring something of its original glory to the 
night. 

“You are. But whether you are or not, I see dangers 
that menace your happiness and contentment." 

“Then what do you suggest?" 

“What I try and suggest when I’m not with you is that 
this should come to an end; or if not quite to an end (that 
is too terrible to contemplate) that we should not see each 
other so often." 

He went on talking, but Avice scarcely listened: the 
mere suggestion of doing what he had said filled her with 
terror: no longer was the night spread with stars to light 
their steps; neither was the air soft with country scents: 
she walked in a bleak, cheerless world, where there was 
neither light nor happiness; and where, any moment, the 
ground might open and swallow her up. 

Then, from sheer desire of lessening her immense lone- 
liness, she paid some attention to the voice at her side. 

“And again, I did wrong in coming to your house that 
night. I knew I should not have come; that by the fact 
of so doing I should once and for all prevent anything 
serious between us. Perhaps, on second thoughts, that 
was a reason why I came. But I wanted to see you in the 
atmosphere of your home. I knew it would be all you” 

“Why should the fact of your coming prevent anything 
serious between us?" inquired Avice. 

Her state of mind was such that she asked the question 
quite impersonally: it interested her; she wanted to know. 

“I broke bread with your husband." 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


164 

!’» 

“A husband who is an awfully decent sort/' 

“What has that to do with it?” 

“That means I could never be more to you than the 
merest friend.” 

“What funny creatures men are!” mused Avice. “And 
what funny points of view they take! As if anything 
mattered with two people fond of one another !” 

She gave more heed to the man at her side, who con- 
tinued : 

“I know I did very, very wrong in kissing you. I acted 
on the impulse of the moment. You looked so sad, and 
forlorn, and when I knew you were worrying about nothing 
at all ” 

The rest was lost in silence. 

“Are you sorry now?” she presently asked: she spoke 
in an even voice, but waited in a great suspense for his 
reply. 

“Yes and no.” 

“Why are you sorry?” 

‘^But !” 

“Tell me why you are sorry. Look me in the face.” 

They had reached one of the infrequent lamp-posts; and 
she stood before him and met his eyes: and the lamplight 
fell on her upturned face. 

“I’m sorry because — at least — I tell myself I should not 
have taken advantage and — where was I?” 

She enjoyed his confusion, and said in all deliberation: 

“You are not sorry one bit.” 

“I — I don’t believe I am — now,” he faltered. 

Avice was quick to take advantage of his mood. 

“Then you don’t wish to see me again?” she cried de- 
cidedly. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You said it was in your mind before you met me.” 

“Perhaps, and ” 

“And it will be in your mind after you have gone : and 
to-morrow and the next day. Isn’t that so?” 

“I wanted to talk it over with you, and see what you 
thought about it all.” 

“So it’s I who am to decide?” 


THE MIRACLE 


165 

so helpless where you are/' 

Avice made a fine show of consideration, before saying: 

'‘As you, more than any other man alive, know, if there 
were any — any danger, as you call it, I should be the last 
woman in the world to see you again!" 

"That’s why I feel free to lo — like you as I do." 

These words were music to Avice’s ears : she went on : 

"And you don’t know how Tm situated — with regard to 
my husband. He’s interested in another woman." 

"Good heavens!" 

"He is." 

"Is it possible?" 

“It’s true." 

‘‘But ’’ 

"Of course it’s not serious, I think I know her too well 
for that — although one never really knows a woman — but 
if he gets happiness from being with her, surely I’m en- 
titled to have an innocent friendship with you?" 

"Your husband strikes me as the last man in the 
world ” 

"He’s there to-night," she interrupted sharply. "Surely 
I’m entitled to do the same!" 

"I — I suppose you are." 

"Can anyone see any objection?" 

"I — I don’t suppose they can." 

"Can you?" 
no." 

"If there were any harm in my seeing you, I should 
be the first to see it; the first to stop it. But there isn’t. 
On the contrary, I think there is something very beautiful 
in the idea of a pure friendship between a man and a 
woman, who find in each other a companionship and a 
sympathy they cannot find elsewhere. Don’t you?" 

"Of course." 

"It broadens their lives, gives them an interest in things, 
and sweetens existence generally. Isn’t that so?" 

"Most certainly," declared Pinnick who, warmed by her 
enthusiasm, was now confident. 

"Far from seeing any harm in it, I think it a most won- 
derful and precious gift." 

Avice continued to wax eloquent on the elevating quality 


i66 A PILLAR OF SALT 

of their friendship; its harmlessness; its freedom from 
earthy dross. 

Pinnick followed her example, whereupon A vice warmed 
with a tender happiness which once more made the sordid 
Seagrave Road a place of exquisite delight. 

And since they were both agreed, she told herself that 
the one thing wanting to her happiness was to let him know 
that he was as dear to her as she was to him. 

She stopped in her slow walk, and asked : 

“Are you very sorry you kissed me?^^ 

“As I said before, no and yes.’’ 

“Why ‘no’ !” 

“Because it was you.” 

“Why ‘yes’?” 

“Because I’d no right to have done it. But you didn’t 
very much mind, did you?” 

There was such a wealth of eagerness in his question 
that she could not help replying: 

“I — I don’t think so.” 

He was silent ; and she could see by the expression of his 
face that he was rapturously happy. 

“You look so happy,” she remarked. 

“I am.” 

“Absolutely and completely?” 

“Not quite.” 

“Ah ! What do you want to make you perfectly happy ?” 

“I mustn’t tell you.” 

“Please: please!” 

“I daren’t.” 

“I insist on knowing.” 

“I— I should like to ” 

“Yes — yes,” she cried impatiently upon his hesitating. 

“I should like to know you 1 — care for me as I care for 
you.” 

“You — you would?” she faltered. 

Pinnick gripped her arm ; looked her full in the eyes ; and 
said in a hoarse voice: 

“I would. My God I How I would !” 

Avice almost seemed to lose consciousness ; she was aware 
of his kisses on her lips; and when she came to a sense of 
things she found that her head was leaning on his shoulder. 


THE MIRACLE 


167 


‘^Did I see you go out ?” asked Leonard. 

“When?” 

“After I did.” 

Avice had never been more on her guard in her life. 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

“On reaching Earl’s Court Square, I thought I’d for- 
gotten my key. When I got in to Eardley Crescent, I 
found it in my waistcoat pocket; and as I was turning 
back, I had a sort of idea you came out.” 

“Weren’t you certain?” 

“No. And then I was convinced it could not be you.” 

“Of course not.” 

“What would you have to go out for?” 

“Precisely. Well ” 

“That’s all. I thought I’d mention it.” 

Unsuspecting Leonard had not the remotest idea how 
all his wife’s defensive instincts had been aroused in order 
to protect the man she loved. 


CHAPTER XIII 


TWO WOMEN 

Avice was astonished at the rapidity with which the water 
had flowed under the bridge with regard to her love for 
Pinnick since the night they had exchanged kisses in the 
Seagrave Road. 

She had been confident that they had put everything on 
a sure and comfortable foundation: their relations were to 
be nothing other than that of the purest friendship, and 
this could not by any stretch of the imagination menace 
the existence of Avice’s home-life; their mutual affection 
would provide a bond of exquisite sympathy; and since 
there was not the remotest prospect of her being guilty of 
wifely disloyalty, everything was to happen for the best 
in the best of all possible worlds. 

Avice, for awhile, and in the face of discouraging cir- 
cumstances, had clung to this pleasing fiction with both 
hands : but the more she saw of Pinnick, the more her love 
increased until there were times, these more often of late, 
when she could not blind herself to the truth. 

On these occasions, Avice forgot all about Platonic 
friendship with the biggest of capital 'T’s” : she was swept 
from her feet by gusts of passion in which home, husband, 
child did not count; reputation was an empty thing; her 
one desire to sacrifice herself for the man she loved. 

Love had awakened instincts whose existence she had 
never suspected. 

She made feeble efforts to stem the torrent by taking 
counsel with herself ; she might as well have tried to stop a 
train by jumping on the line and placing herself on the 
metals. 

And for all the promptings of every-day prudence, some- 
thing elemental within her told her that, after all said and 

i68 


TWO WOMEN 169 

done, she was but obeying the behests of the deepest wisdom 
in cleaving to the man who was her natural mate. 

She met Pinnick with increasing frequency; and did not 
once consider she was doing a wrong thing in making use of 
the stratagems she was sometimes compelled to employ in 
order to get out : whilst she was with him, everything alien 
to themselves was forgotten; she was blissfully, ecstati- 
cally happy; and upon their parting, she told herself that, 
if only they could live their lives together, their bliss would 
be endless and without alloy. 

In order to look her best before her Aubrey, Avice 
ordered a succession of frocks and frills : and as these cost 
money that she could not pay, she ran credit with a fine 
disregard of consequences. 

If she feared that Leonard might question her about 
having so many new clothes, she could have saved herself 
the effort : he made no comment ; and she put down his in- 
difference to the attraction Rene Sylvester held for him; 
a conclusion that made her glad. 

And should Leonard, in all innocence, speak of her com- 
ings and goings, she would cheerfully lie, and with a readi-. 
ness of resource which surprised her in order to shield 
Pinnick: the merest reference to her doings roused her 
combative instincts : if the need had arisen she would have 
fought for her lover with tooth and claw. 

Love had changed her from a discreet young wife, who 
always thought twice before she did anything of conse- 
quence, into a being of primitive desires. 

She was compelled, although it went much against the 
grain, to fulfill some of her social obligations, and make calls 
that could not well be avoided: at these times, she sat as 
mum as possible; nursed her Secret; and despised hostess 
and fellow-callers for the fact of their hearts being innocent 
of the surpassing love which welled in hers. 

Of an evening, if Leonard were at home, as usually 
happened if he did not go round to the Sylvesters^ she 
regarded him with a dislike which the least provocation 
would have fanned into flame; she replied to his remarks 
with ‘‘yeses’’ and ‘'noes,’' and was thankful when she was 
able to go to the room she more than ever determined to 
■ :ive to herself. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


170 

Sometimes, and this was getting increasingly infrequent, 
she would spend evening hours by Irma’s bed : it was only 
then she was disposed to regret the turn of events; on the 
other hand, the existence of her little one was enough to 
reassure her with regard to the possibility of her doing 
anything reckless. 

And should the promptings of conscience be at all in- 
convenient, she would once more try to justify what she 
was doing by telling herself that Leonard’s liking for 
Mrs. Sylvester provided an adequate excuse. 

A morning came, and this after words with Leonard 
about nothing at all, when Avice was appalled by a rush 
of passion for Aubrey Pinnick,: she was blind and deaf to 
the dictates of reason: it was as much as she could do to 
stop herself from wiring to him and imploring him to see 
her, an action that, in her present state of mind, might 
prove the end of all things. 

She disregarded her home duties ; went out : and walked 
hither and thither in a condition bordering on distraction. 

She passed acquaintances, friends, without acknowledg- 
ing their salutations ; came upon spots that called up tender 
memories of the man she loved, and thus increased her 
agitations; she entered a tea-shop and ordered coffee in 
order to steady herself, and after it had been brought, went 
out without drinking it. 

She found herself in the neighbourhood of Earl’s Court 
Square where she bethought herself of calling on her old 
friend Rene Sylvester: they had not met for some time, 
but she was incapable of thinking of an excuse to explain 
why she had not been before. 

On entering the house, she was once more impressed by 
the tasteful orderliness which prevailed: there were bowls 
of flowers on the tables ; everything looked as if it had been 
newly spring-cleaned: it was evidently the dwelling-place 
of a woman who loved her home. 

On meeting her old friend, she was struck by her changed 
appearance: Rene looked older, careworn; and it was as 
though she was striving to put a good face on things that 
were very much amiss. 

‘'Upset because she’s worrying about Leonard,” reflected 
Avice. “If she could know how delighted I am!” 


TWO WOMEN 


171 

Mrs. Sylvester gave Avice an affectionate welcome: said 
she often wondered why she had given up coming; that 
she had not been round herself because of her husband’s 
illness. 

“Isn’t he any better?” inquired Avice. 

Rene shook her head. 

“I am sorry.” 

“Didn’t your husband tell you?” 

“Leonard never says very much about his visits.” 

Rene looked surprised, and went on: 

“I don’t know what’s the matter with him. The doctors 
don’t say very much, and all I can do is to give him the 
best of care and attention.” 

“Is he in bed?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Have you a nurse?” 

“I’m his nurse.” 

“Isn’t it too much for you ?” 

“I love looking after him.” 

Avice looked at this magnificently handsome woman 
who gave up the pleasures of life, which were hers for the 
asking, in order to fuss about a man who was unworthy of 
her devotion: she was dimly sorry for having suspected 
her of caring for her (Avice’s) husband, but so she should 
not lose hold of a certain justification she was in need of, 
she told herself that it was her husband who was at fault; 
that even if Rene did not care for him, he was in love with 
her. 

“I’d no idea you were in such trouble,” said Avice, who 
made as if to take her leave. 

“You’re surely not going yet?” 

“You have a sick husband !” 

“He’s sleeping now. You’ve no idea how it cheers me 
up to see a friend.” 

Avice was not sorry to stay: something restful about 
this single-hearted woman soothed her storm-tossed soul. 

“And what have you been doing with yourself all this 
long time?” asked Rene. 

“Nothing out of the way.” 

“I’ve often wanted to come and see you, dear; but you 
understand why I’ve not been.” 


172 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


^‘Quite/^ 

“And although we’ve seen a good deal of your husband, 
I quite understand why you’ve not been round.” 

Avice looked at the other with questioning and slightly 
apprehensive eyes. 

“You’re so taken up with little Irma and your home.” 

“Oh! Yes.” 

“How is she?” 

“Quite well, thank you.” 

“I so miss not having seen her; and have often asked 
your husband to bring her any afternoons he has free.” 

“I wonder why he hasn’t!” 

“What a thing to say! He prefers to spend them with 
you ; and I can’t blame him.” 

Avice knew a further disquiet of the spirit; this was 
assisted by a reaction from the strenuous emotion she had 
suffered : she felt unstrung, and ached to pour out her griefs 
before one whom she was certain would listen with sym- 
pathetic ears. 

But feminine caution bridled this inclination ; Avice would 
not deliver herself bound hand and foot to any other woman, 
however trustful she might seem: there was nothing for 
it but to bear her own burden as well as she might. 

“You are not looking quite so well as I should like to 
see you,” remarked Rene. 

“I haven’t been very grand lately.” 

“I’m so sorry. Health, dear?” 

“Worry.” 

“What about?” 

“Nothing very serious.” 

“I suppose I cannot help you, dear?” 

“Oh ! No,” quickly from Avice. 

“You’d let me if I could?” 

“I shouldn’t think of troubling you.” 

“It would be a pleasure, dear. You’re so sweet and 
pretty, and have such a good husband, and such an adorable 
little girl, I’d do anything I could to make you happy.” 

Tears filled Avice’s eyes; contrition knocked at her heart. 

“You know I would, don’t you, dear?” 

“I — I think so,” faltered Avice. 

“If you don’t believe it, try me.” 


TWO WOMEN 


173 


‘Tt^s really nothing : really nothing at all.” 

'‘I’m delighted to hear it.” 

Rene spoke of other things which mostly had to do with 
her husband; she wondered if a change to the sea might 
do anything to improve his health; and in the event of 
their shortly going, if Avice and Irma would like to come 
too. 

"I’ve been seriously considering it for some time,” she 
said. "And if you decide to come I’ll speak to Reggie 
directly he wakes.” 

"I’m afraid ” began Avice. 

"You won’t refuse me this, dear. The change would do 
us all good.” 

"It’s very nice of you. But it isn’t quite convenient for 
me to leave home just now.” 

"Thinking of your husband?” 

"Y-yes.” 

"I knew that would be the objection. But we needn’t 
go very far; and he can come down for week-ends.” 

"Thank you, but — 

"I know you hate leaving your home, even as much as 
I do ; but I’m sure we can all do with a change.” 

Avice mumbled something and went into one of her 
reveries during which she seemed to be listening to someone 
who was talking a long way off. 

She said "yes”; "no”; "quite so” as the fancy prompted 
her; and was presently aware that her friend was looking 
at her in surprise. 

"What have I done ?” asked Avice with a wan smile. 

By way of reply, Rene Sylvester came over to where she 
was sitting and kissed her on the cheek. 

"You look dreadfully upset, dear I Tell me what is worry- 
ing you.” 

"Nothing.” 

"There is something. Surely you can tell me ?” 

Avice, who was thirsting to unbosom herself to a friendly 
someone, laid her head on the other’s shoulder: her eyes 
were again wet; she had much ado to stop herself from 
sobbing outright. 

'T)o tell me, dear !” pleaded Rene. "I’m quite sure I shall 
be able to he^ you.^’ 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


174 

Avice compromised with the truth, and unburdened her 
heart at the same time. 

“Fm dreadfully worried about a friend of mine,^^ she 
began. 

“Not yourself?” 

“A very dear friend.” 

“Fm so delighted it isn’t you, dear.” 

Avice looked at Rene through a mist of tears. 

“You’ve no idea how fond I am of you, dear Avice. 
You’re so different from the empty-headed women one 
meets. But go on, dear: let me hear all about it.” 

“My friend is married; and she’s head over ears in love 
with another man.” 

“Good Heavens !” 

“Is it so very bad?” 

“Fm not narrow-minded. It depends what sort of a 
man her husband is.” 

“He’s all very well in his way.” 

“Not sympathetic?” 

“No,” declared Avice decidedly. “And he’s attracted by 
another woman.” 

“Does she encourage him?” 

“Fm sure she doesn’t,” said Avice with conviction. 
“What on earth is she — am I to advise her to do ?” 

“Any children?” 

“One. A little boy.” 

“That settles it.” 

“Why?” asked Avice shortly. 

“Any woman who is worthy the name would put her 
child first. And whatever she suffers, she would gladly 
go through with it for the sake of her little one : this, apart 
from any question of duty.” 

“Is that what you think?” asked Avice slowly. 

“Isn’t it what you think?” 

“I suppose I do. Still ” 

“Still what?” 

“She loves him so much. She never knew what love was 
before.” 

Rene Sylvester reflected before saying: 

“I suppose, according to modern ideas, I’m old-fash- 
ioned, and all that sort of thing: but, personally, I would 


TWO WOMEN 


175 

stick to my husband through thick and thin. However 
badly he behaved ; if he absolutely ill-treated me ; even if he 
left me for other women ; I should always remember my 
rnarriage vows, and consider I was his for better, for worse, 
till death parted us.’" 

“Even if you were head over ears, madly in love with 
another man?’' 

“Even if I were head over ears, madly in love with 
another man.” 

“Then — then what should I advise her to do?” 

“Fight.” 

“How do you mean ?” 

“Fight unceasingly with herself : fight till she wins and 
can laugh at her folly.” 

“All very well ” 

“Of course it is very, very hard; no one denies that. 
But it is the lesser of two evils.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“Supposing she leaves her husband and child, she may 
be happy for a time; but, sooner or later the man may 
get tired of her ” 

“Never in his case,” interrupted Avice decidedly. 

“Then he’s different from any other man who ever 
lived.” 

“He is,” murmured Avice under her breath. 

“Whatever he may be, the woman inevitably pays in 
some way or another; generally with the loss of everything 
she valued.” 

Avice was silent ; the other went on : 

“If you think as I do, as I’m sure you do, you won’t 
fail to point out something of this!” 

“I — I won’t,” faltered Avice. 

“Will you? She may be in such a position that a hair’s 
breadth will turn the scale. And if she won’t listen, plead 
to her for her little boy. Why ” 

Avice had thrown restraint to the winds and was weep- 
ing out her heart on her friend’s shoulder. 

“Who is it?” sharply asked a voice from the darkness 
of an unlit passage. 

“Avice Dale.” 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


176 

“So glad to see you. Fd no idea you would come so 
soon. Wait a minute while I get a light.” 

A few minutes later, Miss Pash brought a reading-lamp 
into the passage ; this enabled Avice to see her way into the 
room the woman she had called upon rented on the ground 
floor of a rather down-at-heel little street in Notting Hill. 

Directly she got inside, a strange sight met Avice’s eyes ; 
the not over-large room, which combined the uses of liv- 
ing and bedroom, was a higgledy-piggledy of furniture; 
crockery; books; grocers’ parcels; newspapers; articles of 
food. 

There was an armchair by a fire that seemed unneces- 
sary for the time of year; upon Avice being invited to take 
this, while her hostess sat on the bed, she could only stare 
at the remains of a half-pound of butter which was still 
in the paper in which it had been bought, and rested on the 
tin cover of a small typewriter. 

And gazing with serene eyes at the disorder from over 
the mantelshelf was an enlarged photograph of Mrs. Gaunt. 

Miss Pash’s appearance was at one with her room. 

She had discarded the fairly presentable things in which 
she went out and about; and was clad anyhow in a not 
over-clean dressing-jacket ; a dowdy skirt: one of her big 
toes projected through both the stocking and one of the 
soft felt slippers she wore. 

“I’d no idea you’d come so soon,” repeated Miss Pash, 
“or I wouldn’t have got into my working clothes.” 

“I got your letter after I got home this morning; and 
having nothing to do I thought I should like to see you,” 
said Avice, who, in jumping at the chance of having some- 
thing to distract her mind, had forgotten her dislike of 
Miss Pash. 

“Anyway, so long as you don’t mind seeing me like this, 
it’s a good thing.” 

“Not at all.” 

“Let me make you some cocoa?” 

“No, thank you.” 

“Don’t you care for cocoa ?” 

“Not much. And I’ve just had dinner.” 

“A good thing. I’m not quite sure where I’ve put it. 
Anyway, you’ll have a cigarette.” 


TWO WOMEN 


177 

^‘Thanks, although I’ve smoked far more than is good 
for me to-day.” 

^‘Worried?” 

bit.” 

“The way we’re treated is enough to worry any reflec- 
tive woman.” 

“Do you mean by men?” 

“Whom else?” 

“And by that you mean — husbands and ” 

“The whole lot of them, but husbands in particular.” 

This was palatable to Avice whose ears were eager to 
hear anything further Miss Pash might have to say on the 
matter. 

“You said a lot about that the first time I had the 
pleasure of meeting you.” 

“It’s my pet subject. Sure you don’t mind seeing me 
upside down? I don’t suppose your home is like this. 
But I never have time to get straight.” 

“Not a bit,” returned Avice, who could not help con- 
trasting Rene Sylvester’s beautiful and orderly home with 
the prevailing uncleanliness and disorder; and although 
Miss Pash would have called the other a ^cow woman,’ 
there was no doubt whom she (Avice) would have preferred 
to marry had she been a man. 

“Mrs. Gaunt asked me to write to you,” remarked Miss 
Pash presently. 

“Oh !” 

“She’d heard nothing from you lately; and asked me to 
get ‘on to you.’ ” 

“I’ve been rather busy.” 

“Not dropping us?” 

“I — I don’t think so.” 

“You said you’d been worried. I suppose it’s nothing 
to do with your husband?” 

“Why?” asked Avice sharply. 

“Because there’s a short way with them.” 

“And that?” 

“To go your own way and snap your fingers in their 
faces.” 

“But ” 

“If they’ve taken every advantage of us, isn’t it time 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


178 

we got some of our own back, now our eyes have been 
opened, and now all we thinking women are standing to- 
gether to get our rights!” 

“But I was going to say, it’s a risky proceeding if a 
wife ‘goes her own way’ as you call it.” 

“We’re going to change all that. What I call my ‘latch- 
key propaganda,’ the right of every girl over seventeen to 
have her own latchkey, and no questions asked by fatuous 
parents, is going splendidly. All the young women are 
mad about it.” 

“Do you really approve of such a thing?” 

“Of course I do. In a fight like ours, we have to battle 
with men with their own weapons.” 

“Maybe. But all that lies in the future. We’re dealing 
with the present. A wife who kicks over the traces 
nowadays comes off rather badly.” 

“But take the case of a woman who does not love her 
husband (there are thousands of them — men are such 
brutes) and happens to care for someone else!” 

“Yes,” said Avice, who found it hard to bridle her im- 
patience. 

“Is she going to continue to prostitute herself, for that 
is what it amounts to ” 

“Does it?” 

“Of course it does. Is she going to prostitute herself, 
or live in natural marriage with her true mate?” 

“But — but ” interrupted Avice, who perceived a break 

in the clouds that darkened her horizon. 

“And incidentally strike a stout blow for the emanci- 
pation of our downtrodden sex. 

“What do you say?” added Miss Pash upon Avice re- 
maining silent. 

“It’s — it’s all so new, I must think it out.” 

“But isn’t it all obvious?” 

“I can’t say just now. I must think it over. And you 
must let me see you again.” 

“Delighted, if I find time.” 

“Are you so busy?” 

“Just now. You were lucky to find me in.” 

Avice’s face fell, whereupon Miss Pash said: 

“But I can lend you some books.” 


TWO WOMEN 


179 


'^Books r 

'"Not essays, but something that gets home to one. Ever 
read any of the great Pelham Dobbs’s novels ?” 

'T can’t say I have.” 

*‘Not?” cried Miss Pash in astonishment. 

‘‘Not yet.” 

“He’s with us body and soul in most things. He shows 
in his books how men and women, who have the pluck to 
kick over the traces, always score.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Read them and see. I’ll lend you a couple, if you 
like.” 

“Thank you. But I meant, do women, who do that 
sort of thing, really score in the end?” 

“Isn’t it your experience?” 

“I’ve never come across anything of the sort. Is it 
yours ?” 

“Eh !” 

“Is it yours ?” 

Avice waited in suspense for the reply. 

“I-Invariably.” 

Avice sighed relief, and said: 

“If I may, I’ll take the books, and tell you what I think 
of them. I’ll take great care of them.” 

“And if you like them, recommend them to your women 
friends. I’m not quite sure where they are. I think I 
remember, though, I spilled some milk on one of them this 
morning.” 

Miss Pash did not find them so quickly as she expected : 
after diligent search, in which Avice assisted, they 
were discovered beneath the best part of two loaves of 
bread. 

Avice stayed some half an hour longer, although she was 
burning to get away and begin one of the great Pelham 
Dobbs’s books : during this time. Miss Pash repeatedly re- 
ferred to the popularity of her “sex propaganda” ; if Avice 
had not been taken up with the hope of finding light with 
which to illumine her darkness, she might have known a 
return of her antipathy to Miss Pash. 

At something after ten, Avice took her leave, and has- 
tened homeward with the precious volumes under her arm : 


i8o 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


they were to her a talisman that might assist her to the life 
her soul ached for: a life of emancipation; a life of love; 
a life of romantic happiness. 

Even as she walked, it was as though she saw afar off the 
Promised Land. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE INJURED WIFE 

''Have you read any of Pelham Dobbs's novels ?" 

"Dearest!” protested Pinnick. 

"Tell me: I want to know.” 

"Never mind Pelham Dobbs or anyone else beyond our- 
selves.” 

"I want to know. It’s rather important.” 

"How 'important’?” 

"Answer my question, dear.” 

"I’m afraid I haven’t.” 

"I thought everyone read them. And you, a writer!” 

"Contemporary fiction doesn’t interest me,” remarked 
Aubrey Pinnick loftily. 

"I’ve just been reading 'The World Well Lost.’ Miss 
Pash lent it to me. It’s about a girl who is in love with 
a married man.” 

Aubrey Pinnick was all attention, and said : 

"Well?” 

"After a lot of indecision, she 'throws her cap over the 
wind-mills,’ and they go off together.” 

"What happens?” 

"They are a 'bit down on their luck’ for a time; but 
love helps them to hold together until he writes a book; 
makes a big name and a lot of money; and everything is 
forgiven, and they live happily ever after.” 

Pinnick became thoughtful. 

"What are you thinking of?” she asked anxiously. 

"Isn’t it rather our situation ?” 

"How do you mean?” 

"As we are now, only the other way about!” 

"It is rather.” 

Pinnick glanced at her from under his eyebrows. 
i8i 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


182 

^^And yet it isn’t/' said Avice, and rather quickly. 

“Where is the difference?” 

“There is every difference. Our love isn’t a bit like that. 
It’s a pure and holy thing.” 

“That means that, if it came to it, you wouldn’t throw 
in your lot with me !” 

Avice stopped short : she was taken aback by the sug- 
gestion. 

“Now you’re offended,” he said : upon her keeping silent, 
he went on: “For Heaven’s sake, Avice, tell me I’ve not 
offended you!” 

“Be careful,” she returned in a quick undertone. “Here 
are the Bingham Mercers.” 

Avice and Pinnick assumed a wooden appearance of 
merely knowing each other; and upon the Bingham Mer- 
cers passing, and with a glance of recognition which ve- 
neered the keenest curiosity, Avice gave her best Earl’s 
Court bow. 

“It was a mistake to come here,” she remarked after they 
had passed. 

“I thought we should be lost in the crowd.” 

“I’m constantly running into people I know.” 

^^They knew you were coming and came to see you,” 
said Pinnick gallantly, a remark that made Avice glance 
at him with tender eyes. 

They had come to the Earl’s Court Exhibition which, 
as has been said, was the evening Mecca of local Society, 
and had kept, so far as it was possible, to the less-frequented 
ways : they had run against so many people known to Avice 
that they now thought it expedient to mingle with the 
crowd. 

It was the best part of a week since the day on which 
Avice had visited Rene Sylvester and Miss Pash; she had 
voraciously devoured the two books lent her by the latter: 
their contents had stimulated her disquiet. 

The gifted pen of the great Pelham Dobbs clothed his 
characters with flesh and blood, and had made them defy the 
most revered of the shibboleths with the happiest results: 
if there were anything in what he preached, it was only 
necessary to be a law unto oneself, and everything came 
right in the end. 


THE INJURED WIFE 183 

It was as though the reckless had a Providence all to 
themselves. 

Thus it came about that while Avice had scarcely heeded 
the sexual hysteria of Miss Pash, she had been greatly dis- 
turbed by the special pleading of Pelham Dobbs : it was 
at one with the leanings of her heart, and more particu- 
larly at the times when she was in the thrall of the gusts 
of passion for Aubrey Pinnick to which she was increas- 
ingly prone. 

Insurgent thoughts had become her insensible compan- 
ion : she regretted that the man she loved was not ac- 
quainted with the books that had moved her. 

Her growing love (it became deeper every time she met 
Pinnick, and seemed to leave other defined stages well 
behind) had made her careless with regard to where they 
went about together: in face of his tender warnings, she 
had insisted upon his taking her to the Exhibition. 

Avice and Pinnick became merged in the stream that 
flowed about the bandstand flanked by the “Welcome” 
club. 

Intimate conversation was impossible ; and since she 
had sense enough to know it to be unwise to exhibit in- 
terest in her companion, her eyes took in more than they 
otherwise would. 

Avice had been to the Exhibition for many seasons now : 
apart from her years of married life, Leonard had brought 
her in the days they had been engaged; even before then 
she had made frequent visits when she lived on the “other 
side of the Park.” 

Its attractions, other than social, had long since staled: 
and these had become so familiar as to make her merely 
bestow on them the appreciation of recognition. 

Now, as always, there were the Earl’s Court “Bloods,” 
radiant in self-consciousness; evening clothes; and not 
over-clean shirts: they either squired the daughters of 
their parents’ friends or (these were the “sports”) picked 
up with giddy shop-girls and their like ; and deeply 
impressed these young women with their social Impor- 
tance by talking of their unnumbered theatre, dinner, and 
dance engagements ; and by not infrequently hinting at 
duties in one of the Services. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


184 

Here and there were colonels and majors of His 
Majesty’s non-combatant forces: there was no mistaking 
them with their square shoulders, and erect carriage; in- 
deed, it would have been easy to have taken them for the 
real thing. 

Avice infrequently caught sight of faces she knew, but 
did not at once recognise; they belonged to over-dressed 
young women in showy hats, who were not inapprecia- 
tive of the glances the male of their species threw in their 
direction. 

She dimly wondered who they might be, until it was 
borne in upon her understanding that they were the maid- 
servants at houses she visited, who were enjoying their 
night out. 

Avice, who had a good memory for faces, perceived men 
and women who were dimly familiar; she was annoyed 
she could not “place” them at once; presently, however, 
she remembered who they were. 

She had seen them every year since she had come to 
the Exhibition, in the long ago: night after night they 
made an undeviating attendance, and walked round and 
round the bandstand with an insipid, if mechanical, air 
of enjoyment. 

The passing of the years made little difference in their 
appearance: they were older; looked a bit more woodenly 
insipid; and that was all. 

Avice found herself wondering what they did when the 
Exhibition was closed ; and was sure that they would 
haunt the bandstand in the summer and autumn months 
for ever. 

Avice repeatedly encountered those she knew : she en- 
deavoured to steer her companion out of the press: it was 
next to impossible to free themselves from the slowly 
moving current just now; a popular selection was being 
played by the band. 

Avice caught sight of Mr. Wellesley Coughman, who 
had danced with her at the “Dudley,” and who was the 
man who told long-winded, and pointed anecdotes of an 
eminent, if distant, relation. 

He was standing a few feet away and did not appear 
to be listening to the music: doubtless he was trying to 


THE INJURED WIFE 185 

think of another anecdote with which to impress the two 
women who accompanied him. 

Avice glanced at these and saw that, though they were 
the physically unattractive Misses Portman-Smythes, there 
was no denying their Blood. 

When she was at last able to make headway, she almost 
collided with Mr. Cuthbert Smee; he was the man who 
made a hobby of High Church ceremonial, and with whom 
she had also danced at the ‘‘Dudley.” 

He took off the crush hat he was wearing with exag- 
gerated civility, and glanced slyly at her and her com- 
panion. 

Avice instinctively disliked him, and wished he had 
not seen them. 

Then she found herself standing behind Sylvia Bos- 
combe-Milderoy, who was telling the young girl she was 
with that if she married, she would give her maid twenty- 
five; her cook thirty: and her two housemaids twenty 
pounds a year: and that she had consistently refused to 
marry because not one of her many prospective husbands 
could provide such an establishment. 

Avice was thankful Sylvia did not see her. 

Some yards farther on she found herself walking be- 
hind Mr. Abercombie Tee and Mr. Elphinstone Baker; of 
course, they were in evening dress; and were discussing 
in unnecessarily loud voices the titled connections of a 
ducal family. 

Avice, assisted by the man at her elbow, made an effort 
to get away; she preferred to take her chances of recog- 
nition in less-frequented places, which had the advantage 
of offering opportunities for intimate converse, for which 
she was now in the mood. 

They left the neighbourhood of the bandstand, but were 
held up by a crowd of people who were of a like mind 
to themselves, and were making for the same narrow ave- 
nue of escape. 

“Quite reminds me of old days in Fuzapore, though 
nothing like so smart, as you can imagine,” cried a voice 
which Avice recognised as Mrs. Norman Butson’s. 

The sight of so many faces she knew brought home to 
Avice the existence of the gulf which separated the real 


i86 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


and the ideal ; the romantic and the commonplace : 
more, it insisted on the innumerable obstacles which stood 
in the way of her desires, obstacles which seemed insur- 
mountable. 

The contemplation of these put her in a fret : she scarcely 
replied to her companion’s remarks upon getting out of 
the press. 

Then (her luck was plainly out on that evening) Avice 
saw Leonard advancing in their direction : he walked with 
eyes on the ground. 

"‘My husband!” she said in an undertone. 'This 
way.” 

They struck off to the left; Avice did not dare to look 
round to see if they had been observed. 

'T wonder if he saw us,” she remarked after they had 
put a distance between Leonard and herself. 

'T hope not.” 

"Does it matter? He’s bound to know sooner or later.” 

"Why?” asked Pinnick quickly. 

"It’s sure to come out.” 

"No reason why it should before we can help it. I 
believe it would have been better to have walked straight 
on, and have spoken to him.” 

Avice was silent, whereupon Pinnick said: 

"Don’t you think so? Why don’t you answer?” 

"I don’t believe you love me one bit,” cried Avice pas- 
sionately. 

"Dearest I” 

"No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t talk like that.” 

"Like what?” 

'Saying it needn’t come out before it was necessary.” 

'But ” 

'If you were a man, you’d dare everything.” 

"How — how do you mean?” 

"Claim me before the world.” 

"So I would.” 

Perhaps there was not the conviction in his voice she 
wanted, for she went on: 

"You say you love me, but if you were a man, you’d 
prove it. You know how miserable I am at home; if you 


THE INJURED WIFE 187 

cared for me anything like what you say, you’d take me 
away, and make me happy for life.” 

“I’m — I’m quite ready to, as you know, and ” 

“But I don’t know,” she interrupted. 

“Oh, yes, you do. But it all wants careful consider- 
ing. 

Avice derisively laughed. 

“Because there is someone very dear to me to be con- 
sidered,” he went on. 

“And who might that be?” 

“Yourself. The woman I love best in all the world. 
The woman I’d give my life for.” 

“So you tell me!” 

“If I didn’t. I’d take you at your word in order to get 
you for myself. But there is the future of my dearest to 
be considered.” 

“Hang the future!” cried Avice recklessly. 

*‘But ” 

“I want to be happy now. If one’s always putting hap- 
piness off, one grows old before one gets it.” 

“I tell you, if I didn’t really care for you, that is to 
say, love you as you ought to be loved, and you would 
wish to be loved, I’d take you at your word.” 

“You haven’t the pluck.” 

“Haven’t I?” 

“No. If you had, you’d tell me how much you love 
me, and offer to throw in your life with mine.” 

“And perhaps earn your curses ever after!” 

“How do you mean ?” 

“By taking you to a life you might find less satisfac- 
tory than your present one. I’m not so well off as your 
husband !” 

“So that’s the woman you take me for?” cried Avice. 
She disregarded his gesture of protest, and continued: “I 
tell you it’s love I want : love ; love ; love. I’ve never loved 
before; and shall never love anyone but you. And if you 
were a man, you’d give me happiness.” 

“I tell you I’m prepared to.” 

“You’re not.” 

“If you won’t listen ” 

“Do you mean to tell me that, if I turned up some 


i88 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


fine day, and said ‘Here I am: Pve come to you/ you 
wouldn’t turn me away?” 

“A vice ! Avice !” 

^‘But ” 

“Avice! Avice! How can you! Dearest dear!” 

The world of reproach in his voice touched her to the 
quick : she was all contrition, and eager to make amends. 

“Forgive me! Forgive me!” she pleaded, whilst hot 
tears filled her eyes. 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” said Pinnick, who was 
profoundly thankful he had rounded the corner of her 
vexation. 

“Oh! Yes there is. I’ve been a perfect beast. But I 
can’t help it, loving you as I do. Let’s sit here. There’s 
no one to see us. I should like a good cry.” 

“Don’t give way if you can help it,” he urged as he 
led her to the seat she indicated. “You never know who’s 
coming along in this confounded place.” 

“I won’t if I can help it. I promise I won’t, if only 
for your sake.” 

“For my sake !” 

“I’ve been quite enough trouble to you as it is. I shall 
be all right soon, if you’ll only let me be for a bit.” 

Avice sat on the seat a little way from Pinnick, and 
sobbed silently: she thought her heart would break from 
very grief at the wrong she had done the man she loved 
before anything else in the world: she believed she had 
offended him for good, and was certain he would never 
forgive her. 

She gave him the ghost of a glance, and was pained at 
seeing he was staring unseeingly before him. 

And yet again she was fascinated by the shape of his 
head. 

Reckless of whomsoever might be about, Avice gathered 
her courage in both hands, sidled close up to Pinnick, and 
said : 

“Kiss me.” 

‘‘But ” 

“Never mind who’s about. Kiss me.” 

Their lips met ; for an all too brief moment, Avice knew 
a happiness she had never thought it possible to enjoy. 


189 


THE INJURED WIFE 

"'You do love me?’' she asked, a little later. 

“You know I do.” 

“More than anything in the world?” 

“More than anything in the world.” 

"‘And you’ve quite forgiven me?” 

“There’s nothing to forgive.” 

“And — and — tell me this: do you think any the worse 
of me for letting you kiss me?” 

“My dear !” 

“Are you quite, quite sure?” 

“I love you all the more for it.” 

“And you don’t think it very wrong?” 

“How do you mean?” 

“My being married to someone else.” 

“I’m afraid I’ve got beyond all that.” 

“Because you love me so much ?” 

“Because I love you so much.” 

Avice sighed a great relief : she reflected for some mo- 
ments, and presently voiced her thoughts. 

“But I’ve every excuse, haven’t I?” 

“With regard to your husband?” 

“About his caring for someone else!” 

“If it’s as you say.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked a trifle sharply. 

“As I’ve told you before when we’ve talked it over, it 
seems inconceivable that, having you, he can look at an- 
other woman.” 

“But he does care for her. I’m sure he does. I 
shouldn’t be here with you if I weren’t certain about it. 
I know her quite well.” 

“Does she care for him?” 

“What!” 

“Does she care for him?” 

“Why do you ask ?” 

“Because, if she doesn’t, I don’t think there’s very much 
in it.” 

“I’m cold. I think we’d better walk,” said Avice. 

“Avice, dear!” 

“What is it?” returned Avice irritably from the 
hall. 


190 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


'T should like to speak to you for a moment if you're 
not too tired." 

“Pm awfully tired." 

“Too tired to have a word with me?" 

“I suppose Fd better get it over. What is it?" asked 
Avice as she entered the dining-room and faced her husband. 
“Aunt Em’s very ill." 

“Is that all?" 

“I thought you’d be upset." 

“So I would be if I weren’t so tired, but " 

“And I’d like you to go round in the morning." 

“I’ll see how I feel." 

“Aren’t you well? You look quite dazed." 

“I tell you I’m very tired." 

“Too tired to have a word with me?" 

“If it won’t take long. What is it?" 

Leonard passed her and closed the door. 

“Won’t you sit down?" he said. 

Avice sat with a show of petulance. 

“I won’t keep you very long. But as it’s rather unpleas- 
ant, I, too, want to get it over." 

Avice yawned (it was make-believe) and was all on the 
defensive. 

“Please understand that, whatever I say, I am entirely 
actuated by your interests," he began. 

“Of course," she replied indifferently. 

“And that my one concern is for your happiness." 
Avice lazily nodded, and wondered what was coming. 
“I was at the Exhibition to-night." 

“So was I." 

“I know. I saw you with Mr. Pinnick." 

“What of it?" 

“On the face of it, nothing. But I hope you’re not 
seeing too much of Mr. Pinnick." 

“Do you wish to insult me?" asked Avice with 
asperity. 

“You know perfectly well that nothing is farther from 
my thoughts." 

“Then what do you mean ?" 

“What I say. I hope you are not seeing too much of 
Mr. Pinnick." 


THE INJURED WIFE 191 

Avice would have spoken, and to some purpose, but he 
went on : 

“You know as well as I do that we have been estranged 
for some time 

‘T wasn’t aware of it,” declared Avice untruthfully. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Leonard. Then, as Avice 
did not speak, he added, and with a disturbing emotion 
in his voice : 

“I thought — I hoped — I was certain you knew of it.” 

“I’m very tired. Would you mind if I went to bed?” 

“First let me say this. Please, Avice. You don’t know 
what it means to me.” 

“Very well,” she said sullenly. 

“And it may be the means of our leading a new life.” 

“What sort of new life?” she asked in some alarm. 

“Like the old, only perhaps much better on account of 
our estrangement.” 

“But— but ” 

“Let me say what I have to say, and then there will be 
no possibility of a further misunderstanding. There’s been 
quite enough for my peace of mind : and you will never 
know what I have gone through.” 

Avice looked at her husband with dazed eyes. 

“I want to say this, dear,” he continued. “In the very 
remote possibility of your contemplating doing anything 
foolish — anything quite unworthy of your beautiful self, 
and of your thinking any behaviour of mine gives you the 
shadow of an excuse, — I want you quite to understand that 
I love you ; have always loved you ; and shall love you 
so long as I draw breath. And anything I can do to make 
for your happiness, I shall be only too delighted to do. 
Loving you as I do, my one concern in life is to see you 
happy and contented.” 

“Then— then ” 

“And now you know exactly how things are with me, 
I — I hope it may be the beginning of a new life, a new 
life which, like the old, will be blessed and made beautiful 
by your love.” 

Several emotions had contended in Avice’s mind whilst 
her husband had been speaking: first and foremost had 
been a passionate desire to protect the man she loved: 


192 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


she had wanted sharply to resent Leonard’s mention of 
possible eventualities where she was concerned: she had 
slightly marvelled at the depths of tenderness he had un- 
expectedly revealed : and all this had surrendered to dismay 
at seeing, as it were, the ground cut from under her feet 
in learning that her husband cared for her and her alone, 
which, of course, meant that her sole justification for taking 
up with Aubrey Pinnick had no foundation. 

Leonard’s voice broke in upon her thoughts. 

‘‘Well !” he said. 

*Well!” she echoed mechanically. 

“Perhaps I have surprised you!” 

“In what way?” 

“Avicel” he cried in pained surprise. “I — I mean in 
letting you know how much you are to me.” 

“Oh! Yes— yes.” 

She sedulously kept her eyes from him, but was aware 
that his never left her face. 

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a hand at love-making. 
I’m afraid Englishmen never are as a rule. But although 
I don’t show it, it’s there all the same, and more than you 
will ever know; and more than I even know myself. 
And since I love you so much — Avice — ^Avice — tell 
me 

He got no farther, for his voice broke: he came a step 
nearer, and put out his arms to her. 

Avice gave him a quick glance: the fleeting impression 
she got of him was that his emotion made him look rather 
absurd than otherwise (if she had loved him it would 
have been very different) ; that his tie was up at the back 
of his neck ; and that she could not make out how she could 
have brought herself to marry him. 

“Haven’t — haven’t you anything to say?” he pleaded. 

Avice was mum, and wondered if he knew how ridicu- 
lous he was in trying to be tragic, and with his tie like 
that. 

“I thought — I hoped — I did so hope ” 

His voice broke again; this time, Avice feared to look 
at him. 

A tense suspense was broken by his asking: 

“Won’t you — won’t you try to love me?” 


THE INJURED WIFE 193 

She wanted to say *‘Too late”; all she could do was to 
give the ghost of a shake to her head. 

‘‘And then there’s Irma!” 

Avice started. 

“What about her?” he went on. “Whatever we may 
feel, or may not feel, we both have a duty to her that 
nothing can alter.” 

It was Avice’s time to be perturbed: she bit her lip in 
order to curb the agitation she feared to betray. 

Seeing his advantage, he went on : 

“She is ours, and nothing can alter that. Compared to 
her happiness and well-being, ours is as nothing.” 

Avice hung her head. 

“I know I have touched your heart; and I am sorry to 
give you pain. But — but — won’t you have another try for 
Irma’s sake?” 

This made such an appeal to her that it was with an 
effort that she hardened her heart. 

“Avice I Avice I” he pleaded, and there were tears in his 
voice. “For Irma’s sake.” 

She feared to hear any more; and turned, and fled up- 
stairs. 

Uppermost in her mind was the exultant thought that 
the fact of her husband not really caring for Rene Sylvester 
provided an excuse for seeing Aubrey Pinnick on the earli- 
est opportunity in order to tell him all about it. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE MOMENTOUS MEETING 

^‘Another new dress !” remarked Leonard kindly. 

"‘Why do you say 'another’?” 

"You always seem to be in something new now.” 

"It’s the first time you noticed it.” 

"Anything but.” 

"The first time you’ve mentioned it, then.” 

"Maybe. But I’d no idea red would suit you so 
well.” 

"It does; only women with my complexion and hair 
don’t know it.” 

"What are you doing this afternoon?” 

"Why ?” asked Avice shortly : she was going to meet Au- 
brey Pinnick at four o’clock at the Kensington High Street 
corner of Church Street; and had no intention of missing 
him if she could help it. 

"As it’s so fine, I’m taking Irma to see Aunt Em: I 
merely asked: I did not know if you would care to come 
too.” 

"I don’t think I will, thank you.” 

"Going to rest?” 

"I— I think so.” 

It was Sunday, and three days had elapsed since Leon- 
ard had pleaded to Avice to make it up and start a new 
life. 

During this time, he had treated her with a tender def- 
erence which, had she eyes to see, concealed a consuming 
anxiety on her behalf : in return, she behaved with a distant 
gentleness which went a long way towards disarming any 
suspicions he may have known. 

At heart, she was on tenter-hooks until she met Mr. 

194 


THE MOMENTOUS MEETING 


195 

Pinnick : she was eager to discuss with him the new factor 
which had arisen ; and was keenly anxious to discover what 
he would say at learning that Leonard loved her after all. 

And at the back of her mind she nursed a dull hatred 
of her husband at having made crooked the path she had 
believed to be straight ; and took a morbid pleasure in de- 
ceiving him concerning the way she was going to spend her 
afternoon. 

“We shall soon have summer,” remarked Leonard 
presently. 

Avice made no reply. 

“Have you thought at all where you’d like to go for our 
holiday ?” 

“No,” replied Avice, whose mind was full of Pinnick. 

“Fve been thinking it over, and I’ve got an idea.” 

“Oh !” 

“You’ve sometimes said how much you’d like to go 
abroad : and I think I can manage it this time. Of course 
we shall take Irma, and that will mean the nurse; but I’m 
certain a good change is what we both want, and particu- 
larly yourself.” 

A year back, Avice would have hailed this suggestion 
with joy: now, she hated the prospect of spending a 
month with her husband; and putting perhaps many hun- 
dreds of miles between herself and the man she loved 

“Well !” he said. 

“Well !” 

He seemed pained by her indifference, and said: 

“I — I thought you’d welcome the idea.” 

“What’s the use of talking about it?” she asked almost 
irritably. 

“What do you mean, Avice?” 

“There’s the expense. You know perfectly well we can’t 
afford it.” 

“But I haven’t told you. There’s a lot of 'overtime’ 
going at the office. It’s rather well paid, and I can have 
as much of it as I want. If I work late for a few 
weeks ” 

“But you don’t want to do that !” interrupted Avice, who 
had determined to make the stoutest of fights against leaving 
England. 


196 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


“Why not?” 

“You work quite hard enough as it is.” 

“It will be a pleasure to work to give health and happi- 
ness to you, dear,” he said simply. 

“Nothing of the sort,” she cried. 

“Avice !” 

“You know you’re only doing it to please yourself.” 

“Avice !” 

“You’ve always said how you’d like to go abroad; and 
you’ve as good as told me that marrying me prevented 
you.” 

“Avice ! Avice !” 

“It’s a fact ; and you know it. And as for your 
working late, it isn’t fair to me, because you’re not 
strong; and you only run a risk of losing your health, 
and getting retired on a pension; and then we shall all 
starve.” 

Leonard waited before saying: 

“Do you really mean that, Avice?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“You look as if you did and ” 

“Well !” 

Leonard had stopped short: instead of finishing what 
he had to say, he quitted the room. 

Avice was no exception to the rule of lovers being 
before the clock at the place of meeting; a quarter to four 
found her pacing without the railings of Kensington 
Church, with heart a-beat, and with her mind a prey to 
forebodings that something would prevent Aubrey from 
coming. 

Everything had gone so well that she was certain her 
luck would change. 

Leonard and Irma had set out together: were to see 
Aunt Em, who was laid up with acute bronchitis ; and after- 
wards, they were going to the Osborn-Platers’ to tea, and 
this meant they would not be home till after six. 

If Pinnick came, she and he would have two whole hours 
together, even should he decide after she had told him 
her news they had better not meet any more. 

And if Avice were inclined to believe he would want to 
break it off, &he knew in her heart of hearts that he was 


THE MOMENTOUS MEETING 197 

helpless; that she had only to say the word to make him 
do as she listed. 

Avice glanced at the church clock; finding the big hand 
was travelling with leaden feet, she resolved not to look 
at it until a considerable interval had elapsed; long before 
this, he would surely be with her, unless something tragi- 
cally untoward had occurred. 

Avice waited in some suspense ; again and again, she fore- 
bore to glance at the clock, until, at last, she could no longer 
bridle herself : she was certain it was well past four, but 
on raising her eyes to the steeple, she saw it was five min- 
utes to the hour. 

The clock must have stopped, so she compared it with 
the watch on her wrist, a birthday present from Leonard, 
and found they agreed. 

Something must have happened to Aubrey, she told her- 
self : she invariably found him waiting at the tryst. 

Avice paced the pavement with quick, nervous steps, a 
prey to a thousand fears : he was run over by a motor-bus ; 
he had ceased to love her and was writing to this effect; 
he had mistaken the time or place of meeting, and was in 
a fever of worry she did not come; he was ill in his Net- 
ting Hill lodging, and with no one to tend him. 

Her agitation was cumulative, and she thought something 
would burst in her head, whereupon she became calm and 
self-possessed; she was incapable of feeling; and if she had 
seen him borne on a stretcher to the hospital, she would 
have taken it as a matter of course. 

This reaction lasted a short while; very soon, she was 
walking Church Street and anxiously scanning approach- 
ing buses. Pinnick usually came by bus. 

Her eyes were not gladdened by a sight of him; once or 
twice she thought she saw someone who might have been 
he ; on hastening back to the spot where the buses stopped, 
she found she had been mistaken. 

The minutes remorselessly passed till ten past four was 
registered by her watch : she was now certain that some- 
thing, and this something of the tragical sort, had prevented 
his coming: she was consumed by a passionate anxiety to 
know the worst. 

The happy-go-lucky people she encountered, and who 


198 


A PILLAR OF SALT 

were enjoying their Sunday outing, irritated her: they 
seemed to belong to a meaningless world, and to have no 
business there at all. 

She told herself that she was faced by the crisis of her 
life : and wondered if she would have strength enough to 
meet it; or whether she would go under. 

Convinced she had lost her Aubrey for good, her love for 
him increased a thousandfold, if this were possible: she 
was bitterly sorry she had not appreciated him more than 
she had done. 

The chiming of the quarter stabbed her to the quick; 
it was evident he was not coming, and all she could do was 
to go home, and wait in an agony of suspense till she could 
open the morning paper and see the Accident coldly reported 
in print. 

But the thought of home was unsupportable in her ex- 
tremity : she pictured herself wandering the streets all night, 
a prey to frenzied apprehensions. 

Avice was possessed by a desire to do something, no 
matter what, if only to occupy her mind : one moment, she 
thought of going to his lodgings to discover if he were ill, 
or if he had left to meet her : the next, there was the remote 
possibility he might come after all, and that she might 
thus miss him. 

Scarcely heeding what she was at, she set off in the 
direction of Notting Hill : she did not get very far : she came 
over sick and faint, and could not put one leg before the 
other. 

She was gazing helplessly about her, and wondering what 
would happen to her should she lose consciousness in a 
public thoroughfare, when she saw someone resembling Au- 
brey approaching on the same side of the way. 

It could not be he, she told herself : the impression came 
from her disordered fancy. 

But upon his raising his soft felt hat, and his hastening 
to greet her, she saw it was her lover in the flesh : that 
he was alive and well; that nothing terrible had occurred. 

Avice knew a profound relief : her heart seemed to melt 
with joy: she was possessed by a happiness, and of such 
an exquisite quality, as to make her think she could never 
survive the delicious moments. 


THE MOMENTOUS MEETING 


199 


He would have spoken, but she shook her head in order 
to keep him silent : it was not every day she experienced 
such unforgetable ecstasy. 

Upon her presently glancing at him, and with a wealth 
of tenderness in her eyes, he said: 

“Will you ever forgive me?'' 

“It — it is you," she faltered. 

“Did you think I was never coming?" 

Still she could not speak : her eyes were wet ; her lips 
trembled. 

“I'd no idea it was so late. And when I found out what 
time it was, I would have taken a cab if there had been one 
at hand. Tell me you're not very angry." 

“It is you!" 

“Of course it is!” 

“Really, really you!" 

“You don't mistake me for anyone else?" he laughed. 

Avice touched the sleeve of his coat. 

“I'm more than sorry to have kept you waiting and to 
have missed precious moments with you, but ” 

“Never mind ; you have come." 

“I must tell you what it was. I was busy writing.” 

“Oh!” from Avice, who did not like this at all. 

“And I found I’d mislaid a sheet of manuscript, and was 
so upset at losing it, and such a long time finding it, it was 
almost four before I got away.” 

This commonplace, if characteristic, explanation of his 
unpunctuality hurt her more than she would acknowledge: 
and she knew something of a reaction from the intense 
suspense she had suffered, and was sensible of a lessening 
of her love for the man at her side. 

“How long can you stay?” he asked. 

“Not very long." 

“Which way shall we go?” 

“Any way." 

“Don’t you mind running into your friends?” 

“Why should I?” she returned coldly. 

He glanced apprehensively at her, and made as if to 
speak; changed his mind; and walked with her in silence 
as they crossed the road to the more crowded side of the 
High Street. 


200 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


*^You said you had something very important to see me 
about,” was his next remark. 

‘‘So I had.” 

“May I ask what it is?” 

“It will keep,” she sighed. 

“Unpleasant?” 

“Rather.” 

“Out with it, and get it over.” 

“I’d prefer to wait.” 

“If it’s your wish, of course.” 

A further silence was broken by his asking in an under- 
tone : 

“You still love me?” 

Avice smiled wanly. 

“Tell me you do.” 

“Would you much mind if I didn’t love you?” 

“Avice!” he cried; and regardless of the crowded pave- 
ment, gazed at her until she gave him the tenderest of 
reassuring glances. 

Once more Avice trod the ways of a dream-world where 
nothing mattered beyond the happiness of the man she 
loved and herself : ways that were all the pleasanter after 
the agonies of suspense she had suffered. 

The reaction she had known was as though it had never 
been : the ecstasy in her heart seemed to reach the confines 
of things seen. 

And as if mere words might do hurt to their bliss, neither 
of them spoke for some time. 

“There’s someone who knows you,” remarked Aubrey 
some minutes later. 

Avice glanced about her, and saw Mr. Wellesley Cough- 
man in the act of raising his top-hat: he was attired in a 
frock-coat suit, which was rather the worse for wear ; pat- 
ent leather boots ; and carried a gold-mounted cane, and 
lemon-coloured gloves. 

He was hurrying along with a preoccupied air; and it 
was evident to Avice’s experienced eyes he was “calling” 
for dear life. 

Farther on, she perceived Mr. Cuthbert Smee : he did not 
see her; he had eyes only for a buxom, overdressed young 
woman, who behaved as though she were out for adventure. 


THE MOMENTOUS MEETING 


201 


“Why are we going this way?” asked Avice when they 
had got so far as the Pro Cathedral. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you want to?” 

“All ways are the same so long as I am with you.” 

“Do you mean that?” she asked in a low voice. 

“I almost wish I did not.” 

“I want trees and flowers.” 

“Is that all?” 

“And, of course, you. Can’t we go into the Gardens?” 

“Of course, we can.” 

“It’s not very far, but it will save time if we take a 
bus.” 

“Why not a cab?” 

“A cab’s too conspicuous. We can get a bus across the 
road.” 

They entered the Gardens by the first entrance they 
came to, and involuntarily sought to find what solitude they 
might: this was not easy; it was a glorious June afternoon, 
and contiguous London seemed to be here, there, and every- 
where. 

“Isn’t it a nuisance?” said Avice, after they had vainly 
searched for what they could not find. 

“I’m thankful for small mercies,” returned Pinnick. 

“I want to be quite alone with you. Once upon a time, 
I liked to be where there were people and movement. 
Now ” 

“Now !” 

“It’s all so different,” she sighed. 

“But you are happy?” 

“So happy.” 

“Really and truly?” 

“So very, very happy,” she murmured. 

“And you?” she asked after a silence. 

“I am, and I’m not.” 

“Don’t you love me so much ?” 

“Avice !” 

“Why aren’t you as happy as I am?” 

“I think of the future.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“I wonder what is going to happen.” 


202 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


*'Let the future take care of itself.” 

“Maybe, but ” 

“Live for the present : live for the present : at least, for 
this afternoon. Fm sure it’s the only thing to do. Live 
always for the present; and if it’s anything like to-day, I 
don’t think I shall much complain.” 

They came to a seat (it was near a big chestnut) on 
which a man and a girl were sitting close together. 

Almost directly after Avice and Aubrey had occupied 
the farther end, the other couple got up, and walked away. 

“How considerate!” remarked Avice. 

“Wasn’t it! And ” 

“Don’t talk. I want to think.” 

“What about?” 

“You— us.” 

Avice bridled an inclination to glue her eyes on her 
lover: she did the next best thing; she edged a little closer, 
and tried to fix her thoughts on the man who filled her 
heart. 

Her brain refused her bidding: her mind was a blank 
where he was concerned, perhaps because she had suffered 
and enjoyed so much within the hour: all she appeared to 
be capable of was idly to watch the passers-by. 

And how Avice despised them all, including those who 
looked like lovers. 

What was their knowledge of love compared to hers! 
Were those love-sick girls equal to the supreme sacrifice 
she might be capable of ? Had any one of them ever loved ; 
did any of them love; would, indeed, anyone in the wide 
world ever love with even a fraction of the love which was 
hers? 

An erect, shabbily dressed, but neat and clean old man 
came along the pathway ; on seeing Avice, he glanced at her 
companion, and raised his hat. 

It was M. de Brillac, Irma’s French-master. 

Avice caught his eye, and was sensible of an expression 
which seemed a mingling of pity and sympathy. 

She so believed that she had all the forces of her world 
arrayed against her, that she was thankful for small 
mercies: she watched M. de Brillac till he was out of 
sight. 


THE MOMENTOUS MEETING 


203 


“Who is that?’’ asked Pinnick. 

“A Frenchman.” 

“I could see that. A friend?” 

“My little girl’s French-master.” 

Pinnick shifted on his seat. 

Avice’s thoughts dwelled on little Irma, but she was 
speedily back in her dream-world. 

This time, she was fully alive to its surpassing beauty; 
after glancing tenderly at Aubrey, she looked with 
wondering eyes at the chestnut; at the spread of blue 
sky; and then at the magnificent ease with which the 
branches of the tree bore their burden of boughs and 
leaves. 

“What is my sweet interested in?” inquired Aubrey. 

“That.” 

He followed the direction of her glance, and said : 

“It is wonderful.” 

“You see with my eyes then?” 

“I think so.” 

“Isn’t the world exquisite? I mean the trees and sky. 
I never realised it before I met you. The other night, when 
it was moonlight, it made my heart so full, I could have 
cried.” 

“I should hate to see you do that,” he said. 

“It wouldn’t have mattered. It would have been with 
sheer joy in the beauty of things. 

“And it isn’t only because they are what they are,” 
she went on after a silence. “Everything, even the one 
star I was able to see last night in the sky, seemed to tell 
me of you. Of the love in my heart; of your love for 
me. 

“Isn’t love wonderful!” 

“Isn’t love wonderful!” she echoed. 

“Since I’ve loved you, I’ve seen things hitherto hid; and 
I’ve heard music I’ve never heard before.” 

“My Aubrey!” 

“Everything is different.” 

“You do love me!” 

“You know I do.” 

“How much?” 

“It^s impossible to tell.” 


204 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


“And you’ve never cared for anyone else so much?” 
“Never,” declared Pinnick with a conviction that delighted 
Avice’s ears. 

“And you’ll never care for anyone else?” 

“What a question!” 

“You won’t, will you?” 

“Of course not.” 

“Promise!” 

“I promise.” 

“Swear!” 

“I swear.” 

“Neither shall I,” she declared. 

A silence, during which it seemed to Avice that the ex- 
quisite sympathy existing between them clothed them in 
shining garments, was broken by his saying : 

“It’s all wonderful : all too wonderful for words.” 

“Your love!” 

“Our love.” 

“We belong to each other, don’t we?” 

“In spirit.” 

“Isn’t that everything?” 

“Of course.” 

Avice, disregarding whomsoever might be about, nestled 
closer to the man at her side. 

“And it’s affected my work,” he went on. “I’m surprised 
at some of the things I do.” 

“Why is it?” asked Avice with a fine pretence of inno- 
cence. 

“Can you ask? Before I met you, I don’t mind confess- 
ing it was often a hard matter for me to write. Now — even 
I wonder at myself.” 

“That means you’ll make a great name.” 

“I won’t go as far as that.” 

“My dearest is modest.” 

“But I mean to have a good try. Of course, it doesn’t 
mean I’ll succeed.” 

“There’s the ‘Ring,’ ” interrupted Avice. 

“I haven’t forgotten that,” he declared bitterly. 

“And if — if you fail, you will always have me.” 

“There is certainly that.” 

“I know it isn’t much.” 


205 


THE MOMENTOUS MEETING 

*Tt's everything.” 

^'Your writing doesn’t come first?” 

‘^Avice!” 

“You put me before everything?” 

“Avice ! Avice !” 

“Answer.” 

“You know I do, my sweet. Why insist on my say- 
ing so?” 

“I know I come first. I only wanted to hear you 
say so.” 

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” she presently asked, “if I 
had never married and were able to marry you?” 

“That is what I’m always thinking.” 

“You would be good to me!” 

“Avice I” 

“And love me and always make a fuss of me?” 

“Avice ! Avice !” 

“We wouldn’t be like stuffy ordinary husbands and wives, 
would we?” 

“God forbid !” 

“I should always come first?” 

“Ever and always.” 

“It would be all like this, only better: — one long, never- 
ending romance!” 

“One long, never-ending romance.” 

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” 

“Too wonderful for words.” 

This theme, with many variations, was the subject of 
their talk until it was time for Avice and Pinnick to take 
a reluctant farewell of each other: she would have stayed 
longer, and chanced what might betide, had not Pinnick 
urged upon her the unwisdom of courting unnecessary 
suspicions. 

When it really came to parting, neither of them spoke: 
their emotion was too deep for words; they left each other 
with wet eyes. 

The whole way home, Avice dwelled upon the ecstasy 
she had known in Church Street at realising Aubrey was 
alive and well : it was only on reaching her door-step that 
she remembered she had quite forgotten to mention the 
reason she had given herself for making the appointment. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A COMFORTER 

''You had no business to open my letter,” said Avice. 

"I tell you I did it by mistake.” 

"Nonsense !” 

"You know perfectly well I should not do such a thing 
intentionally.” 

"That is what you say.” 

"Really, Avice ” 

"Funny it should be that one !” 

"The thing’s done, and it’s no use crying over spilled 
milk. I should have had to know sooner or later, so per- 
haps it’s as well I’ve found out now.” 

Avice remained mum while hatred of her husband surged 
in her heart. 

"What we must discuss is what we are going to do.” 

Avice shrugged her shoulders. 

"Because, somehow or other, the bill will have to be 
met.” 

"There’s no hurry.” 

"It’s a peremptory demand for payment; over and be- 
yond that, I hate owing money. At the same time, I must 
say, it wasn’t quite fair to me to run up a big bill like this 
for a lot of unnecessary things ” 

"Don’t preach,” interjected Avice. 

"I’m not preaching. I’m only stating a fact. And I will 
say it isn’t fair to me to — to do this sort of thing. Why 
did you?” 

"I’m sure I don’t know,” declared Avice untruthfully. 

"That only makes it worse.” 

Avice manufactured a yawn. 

"You don’t seem to care one bit.” 

206 


A COMFORTER 


207 

She was in the mind to reply that she didn’t, but thought 
it politic to say : “Of course I do.” 

“Then as I don’t want to do any more what you call 
‘preaching/ the next thing is to discuss how it is going to 
be met, because settle it I must.” 

Avice did not offer any solution (she was incapable of 
giving the matter thought), and Leonard lapsed into a 
moody silence. 

“Hadn’t you better see about going?” she asked pres- 
ently: nowadays she was thankful to get him out of the 
house. 

“It will only worry me if I don’t get this settled.” 

“It’s no use worrying about what’s done and can’t be 
undone.” 

“I could certainly borrow the money, but that means 
paying ‘through the nose.’ And then again it would get 
me in trouble in the ‘Service’ if it came out. 

“I suppose it means giving up our holiday,” he went on 
after a few moments’ troubled thought. “And I was so 
looking forward to it, for your sake.” 

“For my sake?” she asked absently. 

“For your sake, Avice. I thought it was the one thing 
needful to pull you round, and make you what you once 
were to me.” 

“I’m sure I don’t mind.” 

“Not!” 

“Not a bit.” 

A pained expression came into his face, as he said : 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Why sorry?” 

“It shows you’re not in the least concerned at our es- 
trangement.” 

“I don’t want to go into all that now,” she said impa- 
tiently. 

“What has changed you, I don’t know; cannot think. 
But all those evenings I gave up to working late and mak- 
ing a little money, I did quite cheerfully because I told my- 
self it would mean my winning you back.” 

Avice glanced impatiently at the clock. 

Noticing this, he said: 

“You want to see me go I” 


208 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


''I don’t want you to be late.” 

‘‘Very kind of you.” 

“What about to-night?” asked Avice. 

“What about it?” 

“We were asked to the Osborn-Platers’ ; and you were 
dining out with a friend before coming to fetch me.” 

“This has so worried me, Pd forgotten all about it.” 

“Are we to go?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Don’t if you don’t want to.” 

“I suppose we’d better go,” sighed Leonard. “And 
about this other matter ” 

“Well?” 

“I — I don’t know what to say beyond that it would be 
nothing very much if you were only different.” 

“We are as we are made.” 

“H’m!” 

He said no more; glanced reflectively at Avice; went to 
the door ; turned as though he would speak ; looked at his 
wife with sad, reproachful eyes ; sighed ; and went out with- 
out speaking. 

Avice was delighted to see him go : for the last few weeks 
his presence had put her nerves on edge; she often found 
it hard not to cry out. 

She had been wholly taken up by her passion for Aubrey 
Pinnick, a passion which waxed daily. 

Avice had suspected something was amiss upon meeting 
her husband at the breakfast table : he had scarcely greeted 
her; had picked at his food, and had disregarded the ques- 
tions about any and everything with which Irma had plied 
him. 

It had occurred to her that Leonard had discovered some- 
thing about Pinnick; it had surprised her that she did not 
much mind if this was so : she had become so reckless with 
regard to meeting him at all times and places that Leonard 
was bound to learn of it: her love for Pinnick made her 
careless of consequences. 

Irma had lately developed a liking for school : this made 
her eager to leave the breakfast-table in order to get there 
betimes; this morning had been no exception: directly she 
had kissed her father and mother, and left the room, Leon- 


A COMFORTER 


209 

ard had opened fire, if such a figure of speech can be applied 
to his remonstrance. 

Now, Avice sat in one of her characteristic brown 
studies : her chin supported by her hands, her elbows in 
her lap. 

She did not care two straws that all her husband’s 
night-work had been in vain; that he would not get his 
eagerly looked-for holiday : so far as she considered the 
matter, she was thankful she would not be compelled to 
spend the best part of six weeks in comparative seclusion 
with him. 

Her thoughts inclined to Pinnick. 

Now and again, she would take from her bodice the last 
letter she had received from him; this she would kiss fer- 
vently, before restoring it to its hiding-place, where it would 
remain until she received the next letter from him, where- 
upon she would burn the last. 

She would infrequently take up one of Pelham Dobbs’s 
masterpieces in which those who “threw their caps over the 
windmills” seemed to have a Providence to themselves : her 
favourite paragraphs (many of these were marked) con- 
veyed little or nothing to her just now; she kept the work 
on her lap, much as though it provided a sheet-anchor in 
case of need. 

She was irritable with the maid who came in for orders : 
after the latter had gone, she fell to picturing the alacrity 
with which she would set about household duties were she 
married to the man she loved. 

These fancies brought home to her the chains with which 
she was bound, until the four walls of the breakfast- 
room again appeared a prison-house from which she must 
escape. 

She feared she would stifle if she did not seek the air: 
once out of doors, she found the day oppressive, and re- 
gretted she had come out. 

Avice did some necessary shopping; returned; fidgeted 
about the house; and then went out again: she was so in 
want of something to do, no matter how trivial, that she 
all but called to inquire after Aunt Em, who was now abed 
with a mysterious something the doctors did not seem able, 
or willing, to diagnose. 


210 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


Avice was trying to decide if she should go, when she 
was greeted by a shabbily dressed, distinguished-looking 
old man. 

“Good-morning, madame ; I ^ope I see you well.’' 

It was M. de Brillac; he would have passed on, but she 
said : 

“Good-morning, M. de Brillac.” 

Something in her voice told him she was not averse from 
speaking to him ; he approached her, and said : 

“I was about to take the liberty of calling at your 
’ouse.” 

“Indeed !” 

“For the French book your charming Mees Irma did the 
honour to permit me to lend.” 

She stood stock still, and said nothing; she tried to 
make head or tail of what he was saying, and was aware 
of the look of understanding sympathy, if not pity, with 
which he was regarding her: there was something' dimly 
familiar about this, and she strove to recall what it might 
be, until she remembered he had given her much the same 
look in Kensington Gardens, on the occasion of her sitting 
there with Aubrey, following on the never-to-be-forgotten 
delight she had known at finding him alive and well after 
she had feared the worst. 

It may have been owing to this unexpressed sympathy, 
or (this was more likely) to the fact of his being thus re- 
motely associated with the man she loved, that she suggested 
he should accompany her home. 

“I shall be very honoured,” he replied ; and together they 
set out. 

Much to her surprise, and considerably to her delight, 
M. de Brillac took her a lot out of herself : he had a knack 
of saying the right thing at the right time; and had a 
philosophy of his own which he applied to things great 
and small : and with all this, his words and manner seemed 
informed with a comprehension of her extremity which 
made her heart incline to this shabby old stranger in a 
strange land. 

“It isn’t often I ’ave the great pleasure of walking with 
such a gentil — charming lady,” he said, as they turned into 
the Richmond Road. 


A COMFORTER 


2II 


“You don’t mean that, M. de Brillac !” 

“But I do. Why should an old man not tell the truth ! 
If I were a young man, it is not possible to be truthful 
always; but now, it is a moral pleasure I can give to 
myself.” 

“Frenchmen are always flatterers.” 

“But I mean what I say to-day. You Englishwomen 
that I see — ^you ’ave pretty faces ; and nice complexions ,* 
but that is all. So many ’ave no figures ; no style ; no esprit ; 
above all, no joy in life. You, Madame Dale, if I may tell 
you ” 

“I don’t want to know anything about myself,” sighed 
Avice. 

“Then if that is so, you are indeed as remarkable as your 

appearance. But your countrywomen ! But what can 

you expect? It is your terrible English food.” 

“I thought it was so wholesome and good for one,” said 
Avice, who had all the insular prejudices of her race. 

“The food is good enough, but it is your cooks. They 
are terrible. They learn nothing at all. And they are 
slowly poisoning your race, and making you un’appy and 
miserable.” 

“Nonsense !” 

“I often think it would be good for you to send cooks 
to France to learn ; and for us to send cooks to you to teach. 
But it would not do. If they eat your English food, they 
would die.” 

“Yes, Madame Dale,” he went on, “you are a very won- 
derful country, for are you not very rich, and ’ave you 
not conquered the world ? but — but ” 

“But what !” 

“There are two things you do not understand. You do 
*not understand how to eat : and you do not understand how 
to be ^appy.” 

“Surely we have our virtues !” 

“Far too many, madame. They are ’eavy on you like 
your beefsteaks and your plum puddings. If you do not 
believe me, look at the men and women who pass us in 
the street. Do they not all look sad ?” 

“Life is often a sad business,” said Avice, who voiced 
her heart. 


212 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


“It is your puddings and your morality. The only time 
I see that these people forget them is on Saturday night 
in the public-’ouse.” 

“I don’t go to the public-houses on Saturday night,” 
said Avice, who made a poor attempt to be light of 
heart. 

“I speak of the people. But ’igh or low, it is all the 
same: and you English are all the same.” 

“But — ^but — if I may say so, M. de Brillac, don’t we, on 
— on the whole, live better lives than the French?” 

“It flatters you to believe so. But as one who has lived 
long in both countries, it seems to me there is little differ- 
ence, although you, as a nation, seem to what you call ^ask 
for trouble !’ ” 

“How do you mean?” 

“With your marriages.” 

“Marriages !” cried Avice, who was all attention. 

“Marriages. Your marriages for what you call love, 
sentiment — many pretty names.” 

“But ” 

“Marriage, two people contracting to live together and 
bring a family into the world, is more a matter of business 
than anything else.” 

“And if it is, doesn’t it lead to all kinds of dreadful 
things ?” 

“I speak only of what I know ; but to me, and I do not 
go about with my eyes closed, I have seen many more ’appy 
marriages in France than with you.” 

“Surely not! I 

“And why?” interrupted M. de Brillac. “If you will 
forgive me and permit me to finish, because they are built 
on the strongest of all foundations.” 

Here M. de Brillac rubbed his forefinger against his 
thumb. 

“What does that mean?” 

“You do not know! With us doing that means 
money.” 

“I utterly disagree with you,” cried Avice. 

“I am sorry, madame.” 

“Love is the only sure foundation of happy married 
life.” 


A COMFORTER 


213 

“And how many of you very correct English know 'ow 
to love?” 

Without thinking, Avice gave the old man a glance in 
which there was a world of reproach. 

M. de Brillac closed his eyes; slightly inclined his head; 
and went on : 

‘T accept your correction, Madame Dale. But attend. 
We will talk of this love of which you speak. In ’ow many 
times is it but a passing infatuation : a pretty face — the 
sunshine of the spring — when you ’ave it.” 

“I spoke of love,” said Avice gravely. 

“Once more you are right. We will speak of love, which 
is as free as the swallows. And what do you do? You 
take two people who love, and you put their love in the 
prison-’ouse of marriage: it is there for life and knows 
it. Is it not reasonable that it should sicken and die of 
chagrin ?” 

“There are cases where it lasts.” 

“I ’ave not met many. And if it lives in its prison- 
'ouse, it is because the bars are made of gold, and there is 
much to eat and drink. But in most occasions, is it not 
one of my countrymen who said ‘Marriage is the tomb of 
love’?” 

“May I ask how you would arrange matters, M. de 
Brillac?” 

He ignored her question, and went on : 

“And I cannot see that you Englishwomen, as a race, 
are taught by their mothers to keep the love of ’usbands. 
You catch your fish well enough, but very soon ’e jump back 
into the water, and swim away.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Some of you are chic and charming before you marry. 
But after — you think there is no occasion.” 

“But what about the husbands? Are they faultless?” 
asked Avice with some heat. 

“They are often the same: they do not seem to care. 
But a clever woman can do much.” 

“Everything seems hopelessly muddled,” sighed Avice. 

“It is impossible to serve respectability and one’s ’eart,” 
returned M. de Brillac. 

“And apart from that, we all seem so helpless.” 


214 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


'We are, madame.” 

"You have found that !” said Avice, who was aching for 
sympathy. 

"Who ’as not ! ’Ave you ever seen the theatre of mario- 
nettes ?” 

"There is one at the Exhibition.” 

"That is what each one of us is. Destiny pulls the strings 
and makes us dance ’ow it pleases.” 

"Then you think there is no use in struggling?” 

"Much depends on where surrender takes us, madame. 
The thing to many of us that defies Destiny, and tells it to 
do its worst, is philosophy.” 

"What might that be?” 

"To take everything with a gay ’eart. And always, 
always to smile. If you cry out you are ’urt, you ’ave 
lost.” 

"It is hard not to cry out sometimes,” returned Avice, 
"and here we are.” 

M. de Brillac bade as though he would wait outside 
whilst Avice fetched the book: but she insisted upon his 
accompanying her within : his presence, quite apart from 
any consolation she might find in his talk, did something 
to lessen her mental travail. 

He accompanied her to the nursery: after they had ob- 
tained the book, and were coming downstairs, she pointed 
out the different rooms. 

"That is a spare room,” she said, referring to the room 
in which she now slept; on reaching her husband’s room 
she remarked: "That is our room.” 

"The room of yourself and M. Dale?” 

"Yes.” 

The ghost of a sigh escaped M. de Brillac’s lips. 

She looked questioningly at him, and much as she might 
have done at an old friend, whereupon he said : 

"You would not be angry if I said something to you?” 

"Not at all.” 

"I summon my courage. We French believe that a secret 
of success in the married life is two rooms for the ’usband 
and the wife.” 

"Really!” 

"It is true.” 


A COMFORTER 


215 


‘‘But— but ” 

Avice’s native modesty forbade her to go into the 
matter. 

‘Tt is not for me to tell you why, Madame Dale. You 
should read what our Honore Balzac has to tell us on this. 
He is very wise ; and knows much.” 

They descended to the hall where Avice was reluctant to 
let him go; although nothing was said, she was sensible 
of an approximation to a common understanding between 
them. 

She offered her hand which he took, and held and 
said : 

“May a lonely old man, to whom madame and her dear 
’usband 'ave been very kind, make bold to say something 
to you ?” 

“Of course, M. de Brillac.” 

/Tf I do wrong, I am sorry. But I do it to ’elp.” 

“Fm sure, quite sure, you do.” 

“It is this, madame. If you find your life a prison- 
’ouse, like so many English ladies do, it is not quite so bad 
as sometimes they think. The bars are of gold ; the — the — 
yes gaoler is good, and is it not your great English poet 
who says : Tt is better to keep to evils you 'ave, than to 
fly to others that you know not of’?” 

“I— I think so.’; 

“ ’Ee is very wise. And I tell you why. Other places 
— situations in life — is that right? — may seem more desir- 
able. But it seems to me that, to a good lady like you, 
if you make to change, it is always, always a prison. Now 
I go.” 

“Don’t for a moment.” 

“And you ’ave always the charming Mademoiselle Irma, 
who also is kind to a lonely old man.” 

“I’m glad you are fond of her.” 

“She is charming; and when she is seventeen, she will 
break many ’earts.” 

Avice, who wanted to change the subject, asked: 

“Are you so lonely, M. de Brillac?” 

“A leetle. I think I know what loneliness means. But 
with leetle mademoiselle, you will never be lonely. I kiss 
my ’and to ’er.” 


2i6 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


M. de Brillac took his leave; and raised his hat; and 
bowed once more on reaching the pavement. 

“A dear, clever old man,” mused Avice, as she thought- 
fully re-entered the dining-room, and watched him walk 
the Crescent. 

For a brief moment, her own griefs were forgotten : she 
was all sympathy for his solitariness. 

Then she saw little Irma, who was rapidly growing a 
big girl, come running along the street on her way from 
school. 

Avice involuntarily closed her eyes: on opening them, 
she caught M. de Brillac in the act of reverentially kissing 
the child’s hand, much as though she were a princess, and 
he a youthful suitor. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE CRISIS 

Avice lay on her bed: she was in evening dress, and was 
neither asleep nor awake, but something betwixt the 
two. 

She was blind to the passing of the hours, yet her mind 
took note of trifling happenings. 

Avice had dined alone (Irma was tired and had gone 
early to bed) and had expected Leonard at something after 
nine: he had not come; had sent no explanation of his 
absence; and so far as she gave the matter thought, she 
could not make it out at all. 

She had gone up to the room she slept in about half-past 
ten ; had sank on the bed in a reverie ; had scarcely stirred 
for the best part of two hours. 

The night deepened and, as has been said, she was heed- 
less of the passage of time: she was acutely alive to such 
things as footfalls in the streets; the passing of cabs; the 
blur of discordant noises which stood for the closing of 
the Exhibition; a sharp tat-tat on a neighbouring front 
door; the clamour of a drunken woman; an infrequent 
whisper of suppressed sounds. 

Then, a mouse stillness came into and filled the world, 
and with a persistency that made her almost believe she 
could hear it. 

Otherwise, her mind was nearly a blank. 

Familiar figures were sometimes visible to her ken : there 
was Pinnick; there was Irma; there was Leonard; there 
was M. de Brillac; and there was Pinnick again; and that 
was all. 

Nothing seemed to matter; and if she thought of what 
she was at, she believed she would lie there forever; that 

217 


2I8 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


the silence had come to stay; that Leonard would never 
come home; that the world would never wake up. 

It was all rather strange, but not bad fun on the whole : 
at least, there was not love for a man she could not marry 
gnawing at her heart-strings. 

A well-known step assailed her ears; it was coming in 
the direction of her home. 

It took her back to the days she had lived on the ‘‘other 
side of the Park”; when she had waited in some expecta- 
tion for the coming of the husband that was to be, expecta- 
tion which had surrendered to a sense of disappointment 
when he had appeared. 

To-night, if she had wanted to see him, her desire would 
have sharpened, for he was a long time getting the key in 
the keyhole. 

She heard the closing of the front door and that 
was all. 

Avice slept: upon awaking (this may have awakened 
her) she was aware of a sense of danger: if she had shut 
her eyes, and stopped her ears, she would have known she 
was no longer alone. 

She looked about her and could discern nothing in the 
almost pitch blackness; the sense of insecurity growing 
upon her, she turned up the bead of gas. 

For a moment or two she was blinded, and could not 
see : upon recovering the use of her eyes, she perceived her 
husband standing by the door: there was a marked altera- 
tion in his appearance. 

No longer was he the quiet-mannered, neatly turned-out 
man she had lived with for so long: his evening clothes 
were disarranged; his hair was rumpled; his eyes were 
bloodshot: she could see he had been drinking. 

And over and above this, there was an atmosphere of 
dire purposefulness about him which struck terror to her 
heart. 

But she was a plucky woman; and was resolved, if only 
for the sake of the man she loved, not to let Leonard have 
everything his own way. 

She got on to her feet, and said: 

“Is that you, Leonard?” 

He did not speak. 


THE CRISIS 


219 

“What a time youVe been ! What has become of 
you ?” 

He made no reply : seeing that his eyes never left her 
face, she averted her gaze, and went on : 

“I expected you before ten. You might have let me 
know you were not coming.” 

Still there was silence, whereupon she continued : 

“I’ve been worrying, but couldn’t do anything, as I’d no 
idea where you were. And — and — of course, I didn’t tell 
Irma — she would have worried too — and — and — what is 
the matter with you? Can’t you use your tongue?” 

Leonard advanced a step nearer; compressed his lips, 
which made him breathe more heavily; and did not say a 
word. 

His appearance; his manner; above all, his persistent 
silence, added to her fears : she resolved to make a bid for 
escape. 

“I’m rather thirsty,” she remarked as nonchalantly as 
she might. “I think I’ll go downstairs.” 

Leonard glanced at the water-bottle on the wash- 
stand. 

“I don’t fancy water,” she said. “I think I’ll go down- 
stairs and get some lemonade.” 

Leonard backed to the door, and stood against it facing 
her : this as good as told her he would not let her go. 

“What’s the matter, Leonard? What’s the matter?” she 
cried in alarm. “You’re so unlike yourself !” 

The ghost of a wry smile hovered on his lips. 

“Let me go — let me go. You don’t know how thirsty 
I am. If you won’t let me go, fetch it yourself.” 

Still he made no sound ; upon her trying to pass him, he 
caught hold of her arm and held it as in a vice. 

His unexpected violence made her feel helpless: at the 
same time, it somehow calmed her apprehensions; she set 
about thinking the best thing to be done. 

An idea flashed into her brain, whereupon she cried : 

“Listen !” 

He took no notice; she repeated, and more insistently 
than before 

“Listen! Listen! Was that Irma? It was: and she’s 
calling for something and wants me.” 


220 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


Leonard made no sign. 

Desperation possessed Avice: she flung herself upon her 
husband; attempted to put him out of the way; and on 
finding she could not eifect her purpose, she cried: 

'‘You brute: that’s what you are; a brute to keep a 
mother from her child — I always thought you loved her. 
Now I see you don’t. And you’re drunk: yes, drunk. 
You’re a drunken beast and I hate ” 

Avice got no farther: Leonard seized her other hand, 
and with a force that nearly put her on the ground. 

She tried to struggle once more ; but it was useless : real- 
ising she could do nothing, she glared at him as might a 
trapped wild beast. 

At last he spoke; she scarcely knew his voice by reason 
of its hoarseness. 

“Why — why look like that?” he asked. 

“Like what?” 

“As if you hated me!” 

“I shall if you don’t let me go.” 

“Hate mer 

He spoke as though he could not believe her words. 

“Yes, hate you, hate you forever and always, if you 
come home drunk, and behave like a pig !” she cried. 

The grip relaxed upon her arms ; she was quick to seize 
her advantage, and went on : 

“This isn’t the Leonard I knew : this isn’t the husband 
I trusted, and was so proud of : this isn’t the man I 
loved.” 

This was barely out of her mouth before he flung his 
arms away from her: Avice was free at last. 

She was so overjoyed at her comparative freedom; so 
overwrought by the unexpectedness of this adventure ; that 
her legs trembled beneath her : it was as much as she could 
do to stop herself from falling. 

A mirthless laugh broke upon her ears ; a mirthless laugh 
which chilled her to the marrow. 

She tried to speak, but her tongue refused its office : her 
blood ran cold in her veins. 

“It’s all right, little Avice; quite all right,” he said in 
a voice that the tenderness he strove to put into his words 
made more discordant. “There’s nothing to be upset about. 


THE CRISIS 


221 


It’s all been a great mistake. Just for a moment, when 
you wanted to go downstairs, I thought it was true: now 
I know everything’s all right.” 

“Thought what was true?” she asked in all bewilder- 
ment. 

“That you’d ceased to love me: that we’d been es- 
tranged : that when I tried to make it up, you weren’t 'hav- 
ing any.’ But it isn’t so; is it, sweetheart?” 

The fears that again gathered at her heart prompted 
her to say: 

“No, Leonard.” 

“We were estranged, weren’t we?” 

“N-no, Leonard.” 

“Sure?” 

“Quite.” 

“And it’s all imagination on my part ?” 

She did not at once reply. “Answer: answer!” he 
cried. 

“Quite — quite imagination.” 

“So you love me still?” 

“Y-yes, Leonard.” 

“And we’re the same as we always were — husband and 
wife?” 

She intuitively perceived the drift of his words, and 
again hesitated to speak. 

“Answer! answer!” he almost shouted. “Aren’t we the 
same as we always were — husband and wife?” 

“Anything — anything, if you’ll only let me go. Will 
you? Will you?” 

For answer, Leonard turned the key in the lock. 

“Leonard! Leonard!” gasped Avice. 

“What’s the matter? We’re husband and wife.” 

“But ” 

“You say you love me! Prove your words.” 

Avice stared at him with terror-stricken eyes. 

“Weren’t you speaking the truth?” he went on. 

“Yes, Leonard, yes. But ” 

“Because if you weren’t ” 

“What then?” she asked desperately. 

“It would mean you did not love me: that — that — and 
then ” 


222 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


^^Yes, yes!’^ 

might kill you/’ 

Avice shrank away from her husband, who still stood by 
the door: she glanced wildly about her to descry a means 
of escape: there were only the windows, but these were 
too high; and it was useless to scream at that late hour: 
even were it broad daylight, and Earl’s Court were out and 
about, she would not have done any such thing: Avice, 
after the manner of her kind, hated a scandal before any- 
thing in the world. 

She glanced at her husband; he still stood against the 
locked door: a sight of his set face told her it would be 
waste of time to think of any stratagem she might 
employ. 

It flashed into her mind how different he was from the 
Leonard she had known; also, something she had read, 
or Pinnick had told her, to the effect that the only certain 
thing in human nature was stark inconsistency. 

All she could do was to fight for the man she loved for 
so long as she had breath in her body. 

And with this resolve came the thought: 

''If only he were here to protect me from the man I 
hate !” 

A moment later, Avice was fighting for more than life. 

Thrice she prevailed and got away: each time he seized 
her she kicked, and scratched, and bit, until his hands were 
red with blood. 

The last time he got hold of her, a strange thing hap- 
pened : she was fascinated by the blood ; and this, together 
with the violence of the man, dominated her in spite of 
herself : she was in the mind to surrender. 

Then, when her resolution had all but ebbed, and her 
strength was well-nigh done, she tried to think of the 
man she was fighting for in order to give her further stay : 
all that came to her was the shape of his head. 

This fired her to make a last, desperate effort. 

"Stop ! Stop !” she wailed. And then : "Help ! 
Help !” 

He put his hand over her mouth. 

She bit a finger to the bone: he quickly withdrew his 
hand, and she cried : 


THE CRISIS 


223 


*‘You mustn't: you mustn’t!" 

“I’m your husband!" he gasped. 

“You wouldn’t if you knew!" 

“Knew? Knew what?" 

“I love another man." 

His hold loosened : Avice shut her eyes ; she expected he 
would take her life. 

She waited in a dread suspense, during which she dimly 
wondered if life were not worth dishonour: upon nothing 
happening, she glanced fearfully about her: what she saw 
made her heart rejoice. 

No longer was she menaced by a man of fell purpose: 
she merely perceived the mild-mannered Leonard she 
was familiar with: he was standing forlornly by the wall 
on which he leaned for support: his face was aged and 
pale. 

On seeing his wife regarding him, he faltered : 

“What — what happened just now, I don’t know. If I 
were a beast, I’m sorry, Avice. I’d been drinking, perhaps 
— but never mind. It’s — it’s this." 

She did not speak; and he went on: 

“You said you love another man?" 

Then after a silence: “Terrible! Terrible! But 
the strange thing is — stranger — stranger — than what 
you told me is that — that — I can’t realise it — can’t 
realise it." 

A further silence was broken by his saying : 

“My Avice loves another man! I can’t — can’t realise it. 
And then — then — there’s little ’’ 

He said no more; he was immersed in his griefs. 

A minute or so later, his head bowed. 

And Avice could not find it in her heart to pity the man 
she had stricken down. 

All she cared about was that she had saved herself. 

Thus they remained: Avice sitting on the bed, and idly 
kicking her feet: Leonard standing with bowed head in 
the middle of the room; until the fates provided an 
anti-climax to the highly-charged minutes they had 
known. 

There was a hurried step along the street; a violent 
knocking and ringing on the front door. 


224 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


And upon Leonard’s pulling himself together, and going 
downstairs to see what it was Avice leaned out of the win- 
dow to overhear what she might. 

Aunt Em was dying, and wanted to see her nephew be- 
fore she set out on the Great Journey was the purport of 
the summons. 

Leonard set off at once. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


KISSES WITHOUT WORDS 

Avice set about packing her belongings. 

This was not easy: her brain was on fire; she trembled 
in every limb : she put into her trunk possessions she had 
no use for, and forgot things she wanted to take. 

For three hours after Leonard had left the house she 
had paced the room, barely conscious of what she was at. 

Sleep was forgotten : she could not have slept if she had 
tried: she had walked up and down, trying in her clearer 
moments to decide what she should do. 

If she had been honest, she would have acknowledged 
she had already made up her mind. 

To throw dust in her eyes, she sought to justify a course 
of action she had already resolved upon. 

Now Leonard knew she had given her heart to another, 
they could no longer live beneath the same roof : violent 
altercations were the least she had to fear: he might take 
her life; worse, he might kill the man she loved. 

And since there was this danger, all she could do was 
to go away, and for good, while she might; if she delayed, 
he would be back, and Leonard’s hands might be stained 
with blood. 

The only thing that held her to her home was Irma : there 
were times when Avice told herself she could never leave 
her child; at others, Irma was as dust in the balance com- 
pared to her love for Aubrey. 

Once more Avice deceived herself. 

She told herself that, if she stayed, something terrible 
must happen; she would sacrifice herself rather than Irma 
should have a murderer for a father. 

As for Aubrey, he would welcome her with open arms; 
225 


226 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


she had no doubt of that; and if Leonard sought them out, 
Aubrey would not fail her. 

And, of course, Leonard would divorce her, as he would 
have the right to do; and, of course, Aubrey would jump 
at the chance of marrying her; there was, also, no doubt 
about that. 

There would be a terrible scandal: her own people, and 
friends, would drop her like hot coals : but that kind of 
thing was a seven days’ wonder, and would soon blow over : 
and the more she had to put up with, the more it would en- 
dear her to the man she wanted. 

That part of it was all right: what she really had to 

worry about was how all this would affect little She 

would think of her directly: she had too long to go into 
things as it was; she could not get a cab for some time. 

If she were really going, she would have liked to have 
set off there and then. 

Avice put Irma out of her thoughts by bending her mind 
to the future; and to ways and means. 

She knew Aubrey did not make much; little more than 
sufficed to keep himself; and she was not a good house- 
wife. 

But since they loved each other so much, it would be 
great fun making two ends meet: and, of course — why 
had she not thought of it before? — in the works of her 
favourite novelist, those daring couples who did what she 
and her Aubrey would very likely do, always came out ‘^on 
top.” 

Things might be a bit hard at first, but people who 
^^threw their caps over the windmills” seemed to have a 
Providence all to themselves : everything came right in the 
end: they were the envy of their chicken-hearted friends; 
and would be happy ever after. 

The more Avice dwelled upon it, the more roseate was 
the prospect: she was passionately eager to justify her 
inclinations, and eagerly snapped at anything that came her 
way. 

In going off with Pinnick she was behaving unselfishly: 
she was striking a blow for the cause of downtrodden 
womanhood; a blow which would make men tyrants be- 
ware how they trampled on her sex. 


KISSES WITHOUT WORDS 


227 

More, she was fighting in the ranks of those who had 
enlisted in the service of Romance: who, at the risk of 
losing what they held dearer than life, were resolved to 
vindicate the right of a woman to bestow herself where 
she had given her heart. 

Avice had long since turned out the gas: she was more 
at ease in the dark: but the hush preceding daylight put 
another complexion on her thoughts. 

Dawn came cold and grey, and seemed to put icy fingers 
about her heart: she stood by the window and shivered; 
and she recollected that it had been during another such 
a bleak dawn that Irma had opened her blue eyes on the 
world. 

Avice had suffered much before her baby was born ; dur- 
ing the profound relief following on her travail, she had 
seen Leonard, haggard and wan, regarding her with ten- 
derly anxious eyes. 

Notwithstanding it had occurred to her how ugly he 
had looked, there was a sacred significance in the fact of 
their all being together : she had never been nearer to loving 
him in her life. 

As has been said, Avice stood at the window and shiv- 
ered : the romance castle she had been building fell like a 
house of cards : if she were to be happy in the future, she 
must start all over again. 

She had no compunction in doing this; she had only to 
see little Irma while she slept, so Avice told herself, and 
her determination to run away would be scattered to the 
four winds of heaven. 

On the other hand, ever since she could remember think- 
ing about anything that had to do with love, she had wanted 
romance before everything else in the world. 

Should she see two young people of either sex together 
in the days of her girlhood, her imagination had weaved 
a thousand and one fancies about them; and she had re- 
solved, so far as lay in her power, not to be left out when 
she grew up. 

Later, when some of her girl friends had married un- 
engaging men, she despised the former for being so easily 
pleased ; and had determined not to pledge her troth for the 
mere fact of a wifehood and a home. 


228 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


And should she meet men who appealed to her at the 
infrequent dissipations which obtained on the ‘‘other side 
of the Park,” she pictured all sorts of wild happenings in 
which she figured as the passionately adored heroine. 

Heavy-handed experience had chilled her ardours; al- 
though she hardly ever sat out a dance, and although many 
of her partners had called, and were eager to cultivate 
her acquaintance, until they had been all but turned out 
of the house by her dragon of a sister, Avice for a time 
had looked forward to the worst. 

The worst meant a period of sisterly patronage of 
prettier and more successful girls, in the hope of getting 
anything that was going; then, church work on the chance 
of meeting a weak-minded curate; and should this fail, 
amateur theatricals, which made for third-rate stage 
“shop”: self-conscious manners; and the putting of far 
too much powder on her face : lastly, unmitigated spinster- 
hood. 

Perhaps she had expected all this in face of evidence to 
the contrary in order to tempt a capricious Providence. 

Leonard had come along; and her passion for romance, 
which she had believed to be dead, flamed anew in her 
heart. Here was the opportunity her soul had ached for: 
she was more than ready to abandon herself to a frenzy 
of loving. 

But, as has been said, frustration had dogged her 
desires. 

She loved him and she did not: she looked for his cxDm- 
ing with eagerness, to be disappointed upon his making 
his appearance. 

More than once she had been on the point of breaking 
off the engagement: she had held to it because she hoped 
that a show of passion on his part would awaken response 
in her heart. 

But it never, never came; she had consented to the 
marriage because she had believed he would thaw directly 
she became his wife. 

Even then, he had been much the same : after a time, she 
had given it up as a bad job and got along as best she 
might. 

Now she realised the fatal mistake she had made. 


KISSES WITHOUT WORDS 


229 

If she had not made such a blunder and waited for 
Aubrey ! 

She was sure to have met him one way or another, she 
told herself; they would have married, and with their 
mutual love, born of the exquisite sympathy which existed 
between them, her life would indeed be blest. 

Avice suffered her mind to picture a thousand and one 
delightful fancies in which she and the loved one figured : 
once more, love welled in her heart and filled her being, 
until she felt that existence without him was unthink- 
able. 

And since she had the opportunity of having everything 
she had ever craved for in the way of romance, and more, 
she would be a precious fool not to jump at the chance, 
and once and for all leave the Wilderness where she had 
dwelled, and enter the Promised Land. 

If she did not, and the years flew by until she became 
an old woman, her days would be given up to ceaseless 
regrets for not having tasted the cup that was held to her 
lips. 

And 

Avice was pulled up short: her eyes were attracted by 
the eastern sky which was suffused with red: it seemed 
as though the heavens blushed for shame at the course she 
contemplated taking: later, she told herself, and almost 
believed it, that the skies decorated the way to the Prom- 
ised Land. 

Avice tore herself from the window, and went down- 
stairs to where little Irma was sleeping. 

But she dared not go in; she knew that, if she did, her 
determination would falter if it did not disappear. 

Avice stood irresolute on the threshold of the door. 

She was torn this way and that; and wished from the 
bottom of her heart she could decide one way or the other : 
failing this, that Leonard would return and bend her to 
his will. 

So far as her distraught mind was able, she tried to 
dwell on how the fact of her going would affect her little 
one. 

It was a poor effort; all she thought of was how Irma 
had insensibly changed towards her since the day (it was 


230 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


the evening of the '‘Dudley”) she had found her mother 
out in a lie: she had never been quite the same from that 
time. 

Avice hardened her heart where the child was concerned ; 
wavered; and placed her hand on the handle of the 
door. 

She was about to enter, when there came into her mind 
the recollection of the ecstasy she had known on a certain 
Sunday afternoon at finding Aubrey alive and well after 
she had feared the worst. 

She had often thought of it before; this morning, the 
remembrance had never been so vivid. 

Should she elect to throw in her lot with him, she would 
enjoy countless such moments: he would often have to go 
out and about without her; upon his return, she would 
know a similar delight. 

This decided her. 

Twenty minutes afterwards, Avice stole out of the house; 
no cab being obtainable, she got a man to carry her bag 
to the station, where she waited in the waiting-room till 
Aubrey was likely to be up. 

Before she went, she left a note for Leonard, which 
said : 

"Perhaps some day you will find it in your heart to 
understand and forgive. But I ask you, whatever you 
think, always always to love little Irma for my sake. — 
Avice.” 

Pinnick lived in a house in a Bayswater Square which 
had known better days : following upon years of neglect, 
one who knew his business had purchased the property, 
and cut it up into flats. 

The man Avice sought occupied the top floor. 

She had to ring so many times without anything hap- 
pening that her resolution wavered; she almost hoped he 
was away; that she could get back before Leonard got her 
note. 

But, at last, Aubrey opened the door. 

He was apparently having breakfast: there were crumbs 
on his waistcoat, and egg on his lip. 


KISSES WITHOUT WORDS 


231 

On seeing Avice with her belongings, his astonishment 
was such as to deprive him of speech. 

He pulled himself together, and opened wide the big 
door. 

She entered, whereupon he all but closed it. 

He would have spoken, had she not put her finger on 
her lip to enjoin silence. 

Then, after a breathless stillness, they kissed again and 
again; and without saying a word. 

They were the kisses that unsealed the entrance to the 
Promised Land. 


PART II 

THE PROMISED LAND 


CHAPTER XIX 

WORDS WITHOUT KISSES 

‘^Going to get up dear?’^ asked Avice. 

^T think so.” 

“There’s no hurry.” 

“I must get on with my work.” 

“That means I must get up,” sighed Avice. 

Aubrey was as good as his word and got out of bed. 

Avice, who could have done with more sleep (she had 
been up late over night, seeing to things, and putting the 
finishing touches to a new blouse) did likewise: while her 
husband, who did not take a daily bath, was shaving in 
the bathroom, she went downstairs to see if Mrs. Bond, 
the woman who came in by the day, had arrived. 

She had failed Avice more than once : it was a recurring 
morning worry for the latter to discover if she “had been 
obliged,” Mrs. Bond’s phrase for slopping through the day 
for one and ninepence and her beer money. 

Mrs. Bond had come this morning, but had not done 
much beyond lighting the kitchen fire, and this with 
paraffin. 

Avice dared not complain of this extravagance, although 
she was in mind to; Mrs. Bond had an exaggerated idea 
of her value, and had a “take it or leave it” manner which 
she employed with astonishing success to keep mistresses 
in their “plice.” 

Of course, Avice would have infinitely preferred to have 
had a smart “general”; but they wanted finding; and 

232 


WORDS WITHOUT KISSES 


233 

Mrs. Bond, muddler as she was, was a makeshift till some- 
thing better should turn up: moreover, the washing was 
done at home; and as she went about three, her mistress 
saved giving her tea and supper, not unimportant consid- 
erations. 

Avice set to with a will; she got the cinders out of the 
dining-room grate; kept back those that would burn again; 
and made a fire while Mrs. Bond was wiping her hands 
on her apron : Mrs. Bond had not washed them ; she did 
not waste Avice’s soap and water overmuch, but she made 
use of this device in order to appear busy. 

Then Avice set the breakfast things with deft fingers, 
and, in so doing, noticed a cup was missing. 

"‘WeTe a cup short,” she said to Mrs. Bond. 

‘Ts we?” sullenly from the charwoman. 

‘‘Do you know what’s become of it?” 

“I b’lieve it’s broke.” 

“Who broke it?” 

“The cat.” 

“We haven’t got one.” 

“They’ve one next door, mum,” returned Mrs. Bond, 
who eyed her mistress with a wooden assumption of self- 
conscious rectitude. 

Avice knew better than to say what she thought: she 
sighed at the loss implied by this last of a long tale of 
breakages, and ran upstairs two steps at a time: she had 
to tub and dress with all despatch so as not to keep her 
husband waiting overlong for the breakfast she had to 
cook herself. 

“Everything you want, dear?” she asked on passing the 
bathroom. 

“The water isn’t hot,” replied Aubrey, and none too gra- 
ciously. 

“Mrs, Bond came late.” 

“Can’t you get her earlier?” 

“I’ll try, dear. You might turn on the bath.” 

“Thinking out something!” mused Avice, to explain her 
husband’s chilliness. 

“He’s always thinking out something,” she sighed as she 
set about brushing her hair. 

Avice took the greatest pains with herself in the time at 


234 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


her disposal ; she always did her best to look smart and 
fresh and smiling at the breakfast-table (no easy matter 
if the kitchen fire smoked) and to-day she was to wear the 
blouse her tired fingers had finished overnight. 

Directly she was able to scurry downstairs, she placed a 
big apron she kept for the purpose about her, and pro- 
ceeded to cook the breakfast. 

She would have liked to have poached the two eggs ; 
Aubrey preferred them that way, but they were ^'cookers” 
from the grocer’s at twelve a shilling, so poaching was not 
to be thought of. 

She made the best of a bad job, however, and after sev- 
erally breaking them in a cup to discover if they were fresh 
enough to set (thank heaven ! they were this morning) she 
put them in the frying-pan after looking to see if Mrs. 
Bond had really cleaned it. 

The bacon was soon grilled, and keeping hot in the 
oven ; immediately the eggs were ready, she put them with 
the bacon, and told Mrs. Bond to set them on the breakfast 
table. 

Then she slipped off her apron ; smoothed her hair : and 
joined her husband, who was awaiting her and the break- 
fast, her heart agog at the prospect of his complimenting 
her on her appearance. 

Directly she caught sight of him, she saw there was 
small chance of his doing anything of the sort: he had got 
himself up in a way that told her he was in one of his 
writing moods, which meant that he would scarcely notice 
her; that an inapposite word from her, the most innocent 
action on her part, would put him out of humour, and keep 
him irritable for the rest of the day. 

He wore a big blue butterfly bow; had tied a coloured 
scarf about his neck ; and wore slippers of different colours : 
his behaviour was apiece with his appearance: he would 
gaze abstractedly at anything or nothing; or would fidget 
about the room; set the pictures straight, and alter the 
arrangement of the little china they possessed. 

“Hungry, dear?” asked Avice: she was mortified at see- 
ing that all her pains had been taken in vain. 

He shook his head; and with a manner which as good 
as told her she was not to speak. 


WORDS WITHOUT KISSES 


235 

The eggs and bacon were set before the master of the 
house; he eyed them critically, and put one egg on a plate 
with a bit of bacon. 

''Not for me, dear,’' said Avice. 

He looked at her in mild surprise. 

"I don’t fancy an egg this morning.” 

"Does that mean there are not any more?” 

"There are plenty, dear. Really there are,” declared 
Avice untruthfully. 

The postman’s step approached the front door just 
then, and Avice’s heart sank : a bad review of her hus- 
band’s last book, or (this was much worse) returned 
manuscripts provided a situation it needed all her tact to 
meet. 

A significant pause, which Avice knew only too well, was 
followed by a dull thud on the floor of the passage, and 
the rat-tat of the postman’s knock. 

"I’ll get them,” said Avice, and rose from her seat: her 
husband was too quick for her. 

Upon returning, his face, quite away from the bulky 
self-addressed parcel he held in his hand, was enough to 
tell her what had happened. 

"Something come back, dear?” she asked as cheerily, 
and as sympathetically, as she might. 

"Isn’t it pretty obvious?” 

"I’m sorry, dear. Which is it?” 

"That short novel I sent to the Universe!* 

"Do they say anything?” 

"The usual.” 

" 'Returned with thanks’ ?” 

"Not quite so bad as that. The editor writes and says 
it’s not human enough.” 

"That’s what they’ve said before,” from Avice, who, a 
moment later, realised she could not have made a more un- 
happy remark. 

"That’s right, 'rub it in,’ ” said Aubrey, as he pushed his 
plate away. 

"You know I’d never dream of such a thing.” 

"But you said it.” 

"Yes, dear, but ” 

"Acknowledge you said it.” 


236 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


'‘I’m afraid I did.” 

"That’s all I wanted,” said Aubrey with some appearance 
of satisfaction. 

There was a silence, during which Avice struggled with 
her rising bad temper, and Aubrey read through some let- 
ters that had come along with the returned manuscript : the 
post had brought nothing for Avice. 

"Your breakfast will get cold, dear,” remarked Avice 
presently. 

"As if I could eat anything now!” 

"There’s no harm in trying,” from Avice. 

"You never make any allowance for my tempera- 
ment !” 

"If you ask me, I think I make every allowance,” said 
Avice with a touch of resentment in her voice. 

And as she had noticed all too frequently before, any 
show of firmness on her part nearly always brought him 
to his senses. 

He told her of the contents of his letters; on opening 
and reading the last, his face fell: Avice wondered what 
further bad luck was in store. 

"Here’s a letter from Dick Winstanley,” he said. 

"Well?” 

"They’ve got a baby: a little girl.” 

"When?” 

"Last week. He’s awfully ‘bucked’ about it.” 

Avice put down her knife and fork; dropped her eyes; 
and fidgeted with the napkin on her lap. 

Aubrey loved children; and she knew well enough that, 
if their union had been fruitful, it would have made an 
indissoluble bond between them : the news that a newly 
married couple of their acquaintance had been thus blessed 
brought home to her her childlessness so far as her second 
husband was concerned. 

She was utterly cast down, and longed for Aubrey 
to take her in his arms and comfort her with loving 
words. 

Instead, he put the plate he had shoved aside in front 
of him; devoured what was left; and asked for another 
cup of tea. 

His disregard of her extremity angered her: she acted 


WORDS WITHOUT KISSES 


237 

on the impulse of the moment, and did a thing that was 
calculated to annoy him : she ostentatiously took butter 
without making use of the butter-knife; and was shortly 
aware he was staring at her with indignant eyes. 

‘What’s the matter?” she asked. 

“Are you aware what you did?” 

“What?” 

“You took butter with your knife.” 

“What if I did!” defiantly from Avice. “Can’t I if I 
want to?” 

“I suppose you can. But I’ve told you times out of 
number how it upsets me.” 

“A trifle like that!” 

“I can’t help my abnormal sensitiveness, dear,” sighed 
Pinnick. 

The endearing word, for which her ears were always 
hungering, thawed her resentment. 

“Are you writing to-day, dear?” 

“Not till this evening now.” 

“Are you going to town?” 

“I think so. Thomassett tells me in this letter that Milli- 
ken has just been made editor of the New Critic, If I look 
him up, he might take some of my stuff.” 

“You won’t be in to luncheon?” 

“I don’t suppose I shall be back till about five.” 

“I’ll have something for you when you come back.” 

“If you don’t mind. It’s a nuisance having to go. I feel 
like writing to-day.” 

“Can’t you do something in the train?” 

“In the train, Avice!” 

“I — I read the other day — I think it was Anthony 
Brownlow” (Avice was treading warily) — “perhaps you 
know if I’m right, that he does his writing in the train 
or in smoking-rooms of hotels, or wherever he may happen 
to be.” 

“If you call it writing!” irritably from Pinnick. 

“I know, dear.” 

“I don’t deny he has a vast cheap public — but, then, it 
reads anything. Stuff like mine isn’t done that way.” 

“Of course not.” 

‘When one has a certain style, and an ear for cadences, 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


238 

it’s a matter of sheer inspiration; the sort of thing which 
comes of itself, and is no effort on my part beyond the 
mere setting of it down.” 

Avice agreed ; at heart, she could have done with a little 
less style; fewer cadences; and something of Anthony 
Brownlow’s humanity, and his big cheap public with the 
consequent returns. 

“What will you do with yourself to-day?” asked Au- 
brey, as he set about lighting his after-breakfast pipe. 

“The usual. I shall get everything done by the time you 
are back.” 

“I hope so with the assistance of Mrs. Bond.” 

“I think Mrs. Bond has a temperament,” remarked 
Avice. 

“Why? 

“She isn’t always in the mood for work.” 

Pinnick fidgeted on his chair, and turned the subject: he 
disliked dwelling on the fact of his wife having to turn 
to as she did; it hinted at his lack of success in beating 
the “Ring” : and was, therefore, some sort of reflection on 
himself. 

“Someone might call,” he remarked. 

“It’s not likely.” 

“Why?” 

“We needn’t go into that, dear,” said Avice. 

“That’s all forgotten, even if they know anything about 
it here.” 

“Maybe.” 

“And you must admit, we haven’t encouraged callers !” 

“There’s hardly anyone in Thornton Heath I care about 
knowing,” remarked Avice. “And apart from — from other 
things, we’re not well enough off for those we ought to 
know.” 

“I think you’re wrong there, Avice. What about my 
literary reputation ?” 

“Perhaps you’re right,” she returned, although she well 
enough knew the only passport to what local society there 
was was the tenancy of a substantial double-fronted villa, 
which was looked after by, at least, two maids : that style 
and cadences counted for nothing unless they brought in a 
substantial income. 


WORDS WITHOUT KISSES 239 

know I am/’ he said, and complacently puffed at his 

pipe. 

“What was that Mrs. Bond said the other day about the 
blinds?” he asked presently. 

“It was too absurd for words.” 

“Didn’t she say that people in the road said we were what 
they call ‘no class’ because our blinds weren’t pulled down 
to the regulation level?” 

“Yes.” 

“God forgive them.” 

“It is extraordinary.” 

“What must their lives be made up of? Still, what can 
you expect from mere machines who’re content to go to the 
‘City’ all their days, and drudge for a wage?” 

While Avice agreed, she could not help thinking that 
the wage, if scanty, was regularly paid, and was often good 
for life. 

“I suppose I must see about getting off,” sighed her hus- 
band. 

“You won’t go like that?” 

“Scarcely. But I admit I don’t feel in the mood to 
identify myself with the sordid, money-getting crowd by 
travelling with them in the train. You never see one of 
them reading what I call literature.” 

While Aubrey was making ready upstairs, Avice took 
the breakfast-things into the kitchen, where Mrs. Bond was 
ruminating over her meal : directly she caught sight of her 
mistress, the charwoman involuntarily wiped her hands 
on her apron, and half rose from her chair. 

“Now then, get along. There’s plenty to do,” sharply 
from Avice. 

There was rebellion in Mrs. Bond’s eye, but the large 
quantity of tea and bread-and-butter she had swallowed 
gave her no stomach to spare for hostilities. 

She ambled into the scullery with the breakfast-things, 
whereupon Avice returned to the room she had quitted and 
awaited her husband. 

There was heaps to do, and her fingers were itching to 
get to work ; she resolved, however, to give herself the few 
minutes that would elapse before her Aubrey took himself 
off, and rested before the fire. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


240 

She glanced at the many evidences of her handiwork 
which she had wrought and placed about the room in order 
to disguise, so far as it was possible, the indifferent furni- 
ture; then, her eyes rested on a photograph of her hus- 
band which was on the mantelpiece. 

By its side was another, that of the great Stephen Tor- 
rens, whose works were a household word with those of 
any literary discrimination : and there was no doubt of the 
physical resemblance he bore to her Aubrey: the way he 
wore his rather long hair ; the carriage of the head ; the 
forefinger that supported the high forehead : if Avice were 
ever disposed to doubt the possibility of her husband win- 
ning fame and fortune, which she was sometimes compelled 
to do in the face of a succession of significant thuds in 
the hall, she would note the similarity between the two men, 
and take heart. 

On hearing her husband moving about upstairs, she 
chided herself for her idleness; she got up, went into the 
hall where she brushed his hat and overcoat, and put out 
the woollen gloves she had carefully darned in order to 
make them last through the winter. 

The none too smart overcoat (it was in its third year) 
touched a something in her heart which made her press 
one of the sleeves to her lips: this reminded her that he 
had not kissed her since they had awakened; it was not 
that he did not want to, she told herself, but he was think- 
ing out something which meant he had no room in his mind 
for anything else. 

But he was certain to kiss her on leaving her for the 
day. 

Aubrey came downstairs; he had made himself pre- 
sentable; had brushed his hair; and was looking quite 
nice. 

On Avice speaking to him, however, he answered ab- 
sently, if not irritably; it was evident he was still thinking 
out something. 

‘‘Nuisance I have to go to town to-day,’’ he remarked as 
Avice helped him into his overcoat. 

“Why go, dear?” 

“Haven’t I got to?” 

“Won’t one day do as well as another?” 


WORDS WITHOUT KISSES 241 

^^What’s the use of talking like that when Fm compelled 
to at the chance of snatching every half-penny I can 

‘T know, dear, but '' 

‘Where's the clothes-brush?” 

“Fve brushed everything, dear.” 

“I suppose you didn't think of matches?” 

“I'm sorry, dear. I'll get a box.” 

He took them without saying a word, and put his hand 
on the latch of the door. 

“Good-bye, darling,” from Avice. 

“Good-bye. I shall be home about five.” 

“And the best of luck.” 

“There isn't much that comes my way.” 

He left his wife and, although it was bitterly cold with- 
out, she held the door open, and with a smile on her face, 
until he was out of sight : even then she did not go in ; she 
was so cast down it was nothing to her that she was ex- 
posed to the bleakness of the east wind. 

She was on the point of closing the door when she 
heard someone at the gate: she looked out, and on seeing 
her husband, her heart leapt: he had remembered he had 
forgotten to kiss her, and had come back to make amends. 

“I haven’t a pencil,” he cried on catching sight of his 
wife. 

“Haven't you?” she returned sullenly. 

“Can't you get me one ?” 

“I suppose there's one about.” 

“I shall miss the train — I ” 

Avice went up to her room. 

Her heart was bitter with disappointment; but not for 
long: she loved him so much as to make her relent; on 
hastily going down, she found he had gone and, in his 
haste, had left the door open. 

There was no time to waste in vain regrets; there were 
the tiny drawing-room and the tiny dining-room to dust; 
and their bedroom to be turned out: after she had had a 
bit of something to eat, and a rest, it would be time to 
see about making ready the dinner against her husband's 
return. 

As has been said, Avice had no remarkable domestic 


242 A PILLAR OF SALT 

leanings : she would have loved to have had at least one 
competent maid in place of incapable Mrs. Bond; but the 
stubbornness of the “Ring” made this desirable consumma- 
tion impossible. 

Indeed, whensoever Avice was disposed to blame the 
general awriness of things in her second venture into matri- 
mony, she told herself the “Ring” was at the bottom of 
everything. 

The “Ring” meant home-made garments, and not par- 
ticularly well made at that; guinea hats, sometimes fifteen 
shillings, and on one dismal occasion, less ; not very palata- 
ble meals, where cold meat and shepherd’s pie (how Avice 
loathed shepherd’s pie; she bore a bitter grudge against 
whomsoever invented it) appeared with the frequency of 
demands for long-overdue payment of trumpery ac- 
counts; infrequent dissipations, and then of the humbler 
kind; in short, a continual worry to make two reluctant 
ends meet. 

It could not have been anything other than the “Ring”: 
Aubrey told her it was so at least six times a day: she 
cursed it from the bottom of her heart for its stony- 
hearted jealousy of her brilliant husband. 

Avice summoned Mrs. Bond and set to, first removing 
the smart blouse which had failed of its purpose : not only 
did she work so hard as she did because she was com- 
pelled : she had the premonitory symptoms of an attack to 
which she was always subject; and she did not want to 
suffer on top of Aubrey’s neglect. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE day's work 

Avice did not know how it was, but nothing seemed to go 
right. 

The bottle of furniture polish fell over and broke, and 
she had not a shilling to spare to buy another; something 
went wrong with the kitchen flues, so that there was no 
hot water; then, she cut her knuckles in carrying a piece 
of furniture from the bedroom. 

And with it all, Mrs. Bond shed an atmosphere of re- 
bellion which assisted Avice’s depression. 

Should the charwoman take it into her head to cease 
“obliging her," she did not know what she should do : of 
course, she could turn to, and do the work herself, and 
save money that way; but she feared with a great fear 
to spoil her looks by acquiring the pinched features which, 
sooner or later, were an inevitable accompaniment of con- 
tinual housework, together with the constant taking of 
thought for the morrow : Avice had enough and to spare 
of the latter. 

Sometimes, and it was a thing for which Avice was duly 
thankful, this took on the complexion of a labour of love: 
the sordid cares of housekeeping on a meagre allowance; 
the wearing turning out of rooms that seemed to take a 
morbid delight in collecting dust, were undertaken with 
something of a light heart because they contributed to the 
comfort and well-being of the man she loved. 

This morning, it was another story; it might have been 
different if he had noticed the pains she had taken to 
look smart ; and had kissed her ; and said endearing 
nothings, which would have stuck in her memory all day, 
and have made music in her heart: over and beyond this 

243 


244 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


omission, there was a craving she was involuntarily fighting 
to subdue; should this one get hold of her, she would, in- 
deed, be in a bad way. 

A vice resolutely thought of other things : of the struggle 
it was to keep a decent roof over their heads, and to make 
some sort of show to their world; of the sharp social de- 
clension she had suffered by reason of her divorce; of her 
husband’s precarious and limited income; of their not hav- 
ing been called upon by anyone in the cheap suburb in 
which they had pitched their tent. 

Their neighbours were mostly City clerks, and those 
who had regular employment on small salaries; who had 
married the daughters of clerks; who were fully conscious 
of the heights they had scaled; and who, since we are as- 
sured on excellent authority that appetite comes with eating, 
were eager to climb higher. 

Since Pinnick was not a season-ticket holder, and went 
infrequently to town, Avice had the impression he might 
have been a man of some importance were it not for the 
fact of his being badly off. 

He was careless of his appearance; his wife did not dress 
well: they rarely had any callers; and they did not attend 
a place of worship, as Aubrey had infected his wife with 
his indifference on religious matters. 

Over and beyond all this, Avice believed her husband 
was regarded with suspicion for earning his daily bread by 
writing. 

She fancied it savoured of living by his wits; and that 
there clung to his occupation one of those superstitions 
which take such a long time a-dying, this: that it was in- 
separable from drinking, borrowing, and loose morals; 
which are looked on as the deadliest of sins by those with 
whom they were surrounded. 

She did not worry Aubrey by speaking of these things; 
perhaps they troubled her the more because she kept them 
to herself. 

She recalled Mrs. Bond’s remarks about what had been 
said because Avice did not keep her blinds at the heights 
considered as contributory to social salvation in the road: 
it worried her, until she went downstairs and put them 
at the orthodox level. 


THE DAY’S WORK 


245 

She despised herself for what she had done, but told 
herself she could not afford to throw away a single point 
in the game. 

A vice went on half-heartedly with her work: her mind 
was now taken up with more immediate concerns, 
i Aubrey’s absorption in his work (this stood for his for- 
getfulness to pay her the little attentions which are the 
breath of their lives to loving women) was the thing that 
troubled her. 

She knew he worked hard, and often when not in the 
mood ; that he did not seem to have the knack of sounding 
a popular, and, therefore, remunerative, note; that 
there was always the “Ring” to counter his best en- 
deavours. 

But she wished from the bottom of her heart he would 
not be so affectedly fidgety about his writing (he would 
often start just when she was going to bed and write into 
the small hours) ; that he would not incessantly talk “shop,” 
“shop” in which literary rancours largely figured; that he 
would sometimes realise her life was not all beer and 
skittles; and that he would do something (it was so easy 
if he but would) to lighten the burdens that were part and 
parcel of her lot. 

And whensoever, as now, she was possessed by these 
desires, it was accompanied by an anxiety that gnawed 
at her heart-strings; this, that, with the fickleness to which 
one of his temperament was notoriously prone, he might 
get to care for someone else : someone who appealed to his 
eye and flattered his bottomless literary vanity. 

Should this come about — and it was by no means im- 
possible — Avice did not know what she should do. 

She had fallen enough; a further descent meant un- 
plumbed depths from which she recoiled with horror. 

At any cost to her pride she must contrive to hold him. 

Upon Mrs. Bond telling her luncheon was ready, she 
went downstairs, but scarcely ate: she had a cup of tea; 
a piece of bread-and-butter; and some pickles: the bit of 
buttock steak which had been fried for her meal nauseated 
her. 

Avice sat disconsolate over the fire after her scanty 
meal : there was still a lot to do, but she did not care 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


246 

whether it was done or no; what was unfinished could be 
left over for another day. 

Once more she was aware of the symptoms that usually 
heralded one of the attacks to which she was subject; 
they were more insistent this time; and again she had 
recourse to employing her mind on alien matters, in the 
hope that she might yet escape. 

Her thoughts dwelled on the Providence that she had 
believed took under its wing those who ‘'threw their caps 
over the windmills” : so far, it was as though she and her 
husband had been forgotten. > 

In the books she had devoured before she had left Leon- 
ard there was certainly an interval of bad times before 
the good ones came along: the interval with Avice had 
lasted well over two years: and she could have done with 
a change. 

Then, and almost before she was aware of it, Avice was 
seized by the thing she had sought to evade: her heart 
went out to her child, for whom she craved with a craving 
that seemed to tear at her very soul. 

She had always been liable to this, and had hoped that 
time would ease her heart hunger; unhappily for her, the 
passing of the months, if anything, increased her longings 
for what she had lost beyond recall. 

The judge who had divorced her had given permission 
for Avice to see little Irma twice in the year. 

She had not always availed herself of this privilege: it 
made her suffer so much. 

But at all times, and often when least expected, she 
would awaken to the realisation of all it had meant, and 
would mean, in having put herself in the position to have 
been deprived of her child. 

It was a matter on which she could not look for sym- 
pathy from her husband: she had to keep it to herself, 
and allow the canker to gnaw at her heart in silence. 

Perhaps it was one of the reasons why she so bitterly 
regretted the fact of her union with Aubrey not having 
borne fruit: another child might have gone a long way 
toward blotting out her love for little Irma; the love 
which could neither be requited nor rooted out. 

But there it was; and all the promptings of common 


THE DAY’S WORK 


247 

sense she might call to her aid did not help her one bit: 
if anything, they put an edge on her longings. 

This afternoon, Avice was possessed by a thousand and 
one anxieties. Was her little one quite, quite well? Sup- 
posing she were ill, could anyone adequately take the place 
of her mother to nurse her? If she were well, did she 
ever think of her mother? Or had her father taught the 
child to forget her? 

And there was always the dread possibility that Leonard 
would marry again : and it was a commonplace of feminine 
human nature how stepmothers hated the children of an- 
other wife. 

Avice became hot and cold at the thought of her little 
one suffering neglect, or even worse : should this last have 
come about, and did she learn of it just then, the elemental 
something which stirred within her would have urged her 
to seek out the other woman and inflict punishment in 
kind. 

As has been said, Avice, owing to her husband’s influ- 
ence, had largely lost the habit of religious belief and 
observances in which she had been brought up: now, all 
mundane stays seemed rickety and unsubstantial : there 
was only one Power to which it was any use to appeal; 
which would assuredly hear a mother’s heartfelt prayer. 

Avice fell on her knees : she did not pray for herself ; 
solely for her little one; that she might grow up a good 
girl, and be wisely happy; that she should not suffer un- 
duly; above all, that the mother’s fault should not be 
visited on the child. 

The fact of her praying gave her the shortest of respites : 
very soon, she suffered so acutely as to make her think of 
what she could do to alleviate her pain. 

Avice did what she had often done before in a like ex- 
tremity. 

She went upstairs and sat in the room that was sacred 
to her husband’s use. 

There was no fire; and it was bitterly cold; to keep 
warm, she got into Aubrey’s dressing-gown, and placed a 
rug about her knees. 

On the face of it, it might seem that, because her going 
off with Pinnick had deprived her of her child, the con- 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


248 

sequent longings for her daughter would adversely affect 
her love for her second husband. 

Paradoxical as it may appear, the contrary was the case. 

Since she had gone, and was goings through so much 
because she had given up everything for Aubrey, he was 
doubly endeared to her on this account : the more she 
suffered for his sake, the more she loved him. 

That was why sitting in the room where he spent so 
many long hours, the room which was so identified with 
him, often lightened her burden. 

It was so to-day: Avice looked about her at the green 
blotting-paper which he had declared was essential to 
his ^‘inspiration” ; the two candlesticks on his writing- 
table (if he wrote of an evening, he insisted on writing by 
candle-light) ; and, of course, the two photographs of 
himself and the great Stephen Torrens: and quite soon 
she knew a mental ease for which she was duly thankful. 

Then, careless of all there was to do ; of what Mrs. Bond 
might be at; she dozed, and presently fell asleep. 

Perhaps she was worn out by all she had endured. 

Avice dreamed dreams; things real and fancied were 
inconsequently jumbled, until there came one that took 
on a semblance of actuality. 

She was back in her prettily furnished drawing-room 
in Eardley Crescent, Earl’s Court : it was one of her “after- 
noons”; and she hoped a lot of people would call as she 
was wearing a new frock. 

She heard a repeated knock on the door; although there 
were two servants in the house, no one answered it. 

She wanted to ring the bell, and soundly rate the maids ; 
on trying to get up, she could not use her limbs. 

Avice was dreadfully worried at the probability of there 
being no one to envy her new frock ; whatever effort might 
be necessary, she would rise from her chair and answer 
the door herself. 

She did her utmost to pull herself together, and in so 
doing, awoke. 

She was in darkness; she was shivering with cold; and 
for a moment or two, did not know where she was. 

A louder and more insistent knock on the front door 
awoke her to a sense of things as they were. 


THE DAY’S WORK 


249 


She threw off the dressing-gown, groped her way to the 
passage, and down the stairs to the hall : the house was 
in darkness, and there was stillness in the kitchen. 

Avice opened the door, and was confronted by a man 
of the tradesman type; he had called about an overdue 
bill. 

He was inclined to bully until Avice lit the hall gas; on 
seeing he had to do with a young and pretty woman, he 
lowered his voice, and became civil. 

Avice was by now an old hand at what is vulgarly 
known as ‘‘telling the tale”; it had been a hard matter 
in the beginning, and it had touched her pride: the re- 
assuring words tripped from her tongue with the facility 
that comes of practice; and although the man knew he 
was being put off, he affected to believe what she said : he 
could do little else. 

Directly he had gone, Avice went into the kitchen; lit 
the gas, and saw to the fire, which was nearly out. 

She felt irritable after her sleep, so set about boiling 
the kettle in order to make herself a cup of tea. 

This put a better face on things : after she had drunk 
it, she tidied up Mrs. Bond’s litter, and made her prepara- 
tions for cooking the evening meal which the charwoman 
had laid in the dining-room. 

She got everything ready, but did not put anything on 
till Aubrey should return; he might be delayed; she could 
never be certain what time he would be back. 

It had been nearly five when she had come down; now, 
it was past six; she fidgeted from one room to the other, 
and not infrequently pulled aside a curtain and glanced 
out of the window in the hope of seeing him. 

The minutes became a quarter, and the quarters an 
hour, and still he did not come; she began to get nervous, 
and wondered if anything had happened. 

In one of her intervals from anxiety, her thoughts 
flew back to the Earl’s Court days of which she had 
dreamed before she had been awakened by a knock on the 
door. 

She had thought differently then, but she had really 
little to do beyond ordering the meals and supervising 
the servants; she had had lots of time to herself; and 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


250 

with the exception of her dressmaking* bill, there had 
never been sordid bothers with tradesmen : and unless 
Leonard were going anywhere, a fact with which he always 
acquainted her, he was pretty well always home to the 
minute. 

But she could not help admitting she had not been 
happy then : she wondered if she were much happier now : 
and turned the thought. 

Her mind dwelled on other things, until she recalled the 
acute suspense she had suffered when Aubrey did not 
keep the appointment she had made for a certain Sunday 
afternoon at Kensington Church in the days before she 
had joined her life to his. 

She had endured never-to-be-forgotten torment; upon 
his making his appearance, she had known an ever-to-be- 
remembered relief. 

And on that memorable morning at Eardley Crescent 
when she had been trying to decide what she should do 
regarding leaving her husband for Aubrey, and had been 
thrown this way and that, the thing that had weighted 
the balance of her decision had been the thought of that 
supreme relief ; and of how all her future meetings with 
her lover, should he be compelled to leave her for a few 
hours, would be sweetened by the same ecstasy. 

Avice had had a drab day. Things had gone wrong 
from the first thing in the morning; and her dream had 
reminded her of the alteration in her domestic environ- 
ment. On top of this, she had spent the best part of 
two evening hours alone. 

If she could go out and meet her husband; and if only 
her heart could be gladdened with a touch of the immense 
relief she had known on that Sunday afternoon in the long 
ago on catching sight of him ! 

It would more than atone for the toil and fret of the 
day. 

No sooner did this occur to her than she ran upstairs; 
put on her things; and went out into the night. 

She made for the station, which was distant the best 
part of a mile; in so doing, she encountered two widely 
separated batches of City workers on their way from 
town: Aubrey was not among these. 


THE DAY’S WORK 


251 

She was in sight of the station when she saw him stand- 
ing before a bookseller’s, and looking intently at the books : 
he carried some half-dozen volumes under his arm. 

It may have been she was annoyed at his thus dawdling 
on his way home; or she may have fancied that he had 
spent badly wanted money on books ; the fact remained 
she was not at all elated at seeing him. 

She was disappointed, and told herself it might be 
different upon her speaking to him, and his giving her a 
loving word of welcome. 

“Aubrey !” she said in a low voice directly she reached 
him. 

He did not appear to hear. 

“Aubrey, dear!” she exclaimed, and touched his arm. 

Pinnick made an impatient gesture. 

“Aubrey I” 

“I’d just got the word I wanted; and you must come 
and put it out of my mind!” he said crossly. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE EXPERIMENT 

They walked home in a barely interrupted silence; if he 
had been nice to her, she would have insisted on carrying 
his books. 

“Anyone been to-day?” he asked on getting inside the 
door. 

“Only Dent.” 

“Dent?” 

“About a bill that’s owing.” 

“You needn’t worry me directly I come in by telling 
me about bills.” 

“I don’t usually,” said Avice, which was certainly true. 

“Why must you to-night?” 

“I suppose I felt like it.” 

“And just when I’ve had a small slice of luck!” 

Avice was all contrition. 

“I am so glad : tell me all about it,” she said. 

“Presently. I want something to eat.” 

“It won’t be long.” 

“Isn’t it ready?” 

“N-not quite. It won’t be long now.” 

“I’m starving.” 

“Didn’t you have any luncheon?” 

“I lunched with Holloway. But that was hours ago.” 

“I’ll be as quick as I can. You sit there and keep 
warm.” 

Time was, it was some while back now, when he would 
have turned to, and assisted her, and their doings would 
have been interrupted by billings and cooings. 

Custom had staled all that, at least, so far as he was 
concerned; nowadays, Avice worked in the kitchen her- 
self. 

252 


THE EXPERIMENT 


^53 

'‘His brain is always too busy for that kind of thing,” 
was the excuse she made for his cooling down. 

To-night, it was soup made from a pennyworth of bones; 
sausages and mashed potatoes ; and cheese : he never 
touched sweets. 

She had saved twopence by buying pork sausages at 
the butchers instead of getting the dearer brand he liked: 
she hoped he would not notice the declension in quality, 
this in face of the fact that, owing to the undue proportion 
of bread they were stuffed with, three of them burst in 
the frying-pan. 

Her anxiety on this score took away the little appetite 
she had. 

Happily for her, Aubrey was hungry and did not notice 
anything was amiss ; if he did, he kept it to himself : per- 
haps he was heartened by his stroke of luck, for he pres- 
ently said : 

‘T’m glad I went to town to-day, although I wanted to 
stay at home and write.” 

Avice was silent; the bad taste her solitary day had 
given her lingered in her mouth. 

'‘Pve got some book reviewing to do,” he went on. “I 
think I shall get it regularly.” 

“What do they pay?” asked practical Avice. 

He told her. 

“I know it isn’t much,” he replied to the raising of her 
eyebrows which had greeted his information. “But it’s a 
beginning, and a reviewer, if he’s worth his salt, has a 
certain amount of influence with publishers.” 

Avice, while glad of the money, however little it was, 
could not help being sorry for the authors Aubrey would 
most certainly cut up : she knew ' how unkind reviews 
upset her husband for hours on end, and was sure •they 
were pretty well all as sensitive as he. 

“And that may mean my doing something with my 
long novel after all,” he continued. 

“I only hope you may,” she declared fervently. 

Apart from the money it would bring in, she would be 
delighted to get it out of the way: his failure to see it in 
print with a reputable firm of publishers was a standing 
grievance. 


254 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


'‘Influence goes for much in these things/^ 

“Does it?” absently from Avice. 

“You know it does,” he remarked pettishly. 

“I — I suppose so.” 

“Am I not always telling you it’s that and nothing 
else?” 

“I’d better take out the things.” 

‘^There’s no hurry,” said Aubrey, as he lit his pipe, and 
settled himself in the one arm-chair the room possessed. 

“I like to see them out of the way.” 

“But ” 

“It won’t take a moment.” 

She got a tray from the kitchen; piled on the dinner 
things, and took them out : she was in the mood to wash 
up, but did not feel she had the energy: she was careful 
to turn out the gas before returning to the dining-room. 

Once there, the fact of the plates and dishes being left 
unwashed worried her: she could not get the disorderly 
sight they presented upon the kitchen table out of her 
mind: although the spirit was willing enough, the flesh 
was weak. 

“As I’m so often telling you, there is no market for 
really first rate stuff ; the work one does to express oneself,” 
continued Aubrey. 

Avice had heard this so often before, and she was haunted 
by the unwashed things, that she was irritated into re- 
plying : 

“There are some men who write what they please, and 
who get published as often as they finish a book.” 

Aubrey made a gesture of impatience, and said: 

“Once a man makes his appeal to the vulgar, they all 
rush to publish him.” 

“But aren’t there some, men like Conrad, for instance, 
who couldn’t make a vulgar appeal if they tried?” 

“They’re all right enough so long as they don’t get 
popular. I always maintain an element of commonness 
is inseparable from a popular success.” 

Avice could have replied with deadly effect, but thought 
it wiser to keep mum: she was in hopes of spending a 
pleasant evening with her husband, an evening which 
wxmld make up for her day. 


THE EXPERIMENT 


255 

^^And that brings me to my novel,” he went on. “The 
readers say it lacks human appeal. Precisely. That was 
my intention in writing it. My aim is to appeal to the 
intellect, and nothing else.” 

Avice concealed a yawn. 

“The whole business of publishing is rotten from top 
to bottom. IPs on the same footing as selling sardines 
or blacklead. Fve had it in my mind for a long time to 
write to the Author about it, and suggest that writers 
should co-operate to publish their own stuff. Once all 
sorts of charges are saved, it would be possible to publish 
work intrinsically on its merits; and then men like my- 
self would not be compelled to sell our souls in order to 
live.” 

“Quite so,” from Avice, whose thoughts reverted to the 
things on the kitchen table. 

“It’s also a thing the ‘Royal Literary Society’ might 
take up. That’s another suggestion I might make.” 

Avice remained silent, whereupon Aubrey rose, stretched 
himself, and put tobacco and matches in his pocket, evi- 
dences of his intention to seclude himself upstairs; Avice’s 
heart sank. 

“What about a fire?” said Aubrey. 

“Are you going upstairs?” 

“Of course.” 

“I — I hoped you were going to spend an evening with 
me. 

“I must get on.” 

“You’ve been away all day.” 

“I’ve done no writing.” 

“Brownlow does a lot of his writing in trains and hotel 
smoking-rooms.” 

“So you were kind enough to remind me before. I’m 
not Brownlow,” declared Aubrey complacently. “What 
about a fire?” 

“I’ll light your oil stove.” 

“Can’t I have a fire to-night?” 

“But ” 

“I think I’ll stand myself that on strength of getting 
that reviewing.” 

“Curious thing my writing gift!” said Aubrey (he was 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


256 

again in the arm-chair) upon Avice coming downstairs 
after lighting the fire in his study. 

He disregarded her silence, and went on: 

“It’s so unlike the things most men turn their hands 
to : it only expresses itself when in the mood, and then, as 
it were, of its own volition.” 

Avice wished that, whatsoever it were, its practical re- 
sults would enable her to keep a decent maid. 

“And it’s an exacting gift, too. Directly it deigns to 
vouchsafe itself, it demands one’s all; and insists on one’s 
forgetting everything else in the world.” 

There was no doubt about that, Avice reflected wryly: 
while her husband went on speaking of his itch for scrib- 
bling as though it were a something quite alien to his 
everyday personality, her mind went back to the days of 
their intercourse before they were married. 

Then it had been no question of putting his writing 
first: he had spoken of it as much of a necessary evil 
which enjoined separation from her, as he could only work 
in solitude. 

He had done it as quickly as possible, and had not 
taken it at all amiss if she had stolen into the room, 
placed her arms about his neck, brought his face to hers, 
and kissed him on the lips. 

But marriage had changed all that: it was as much as 
she dare do to steal past his study on tip-toe when he 
occupied it: and if the fact of marriage were responsible 
for the alteration in his behaviour, she almost wished 
their union had not been sanctified by this bond. 

Avice was aware her husband had ceased speaking; she 
glanced at him, and saw he had the fingers of one hand 
to his forehead in the characteristic attitude of the great 
Stephen Torrens. 

“I suppose I must make a start,” he remarked. 

“Will you be working for long?” 

“Goodness knows. What are you going to do ?” 

“Wash up.” 

“What?” 

“Wash up. It’s been worrying me ever since I took 
out the things.” 

“You’ve been thinking of washing up while I’ve been 


THE EXPERIMENT 


257 

talking of things vital to my career?” he asked in sur- 
prise. 

'T — I suppose so.” 

^^Avice !” 

‘‘One can’t order one’s thoughts.” 

“I’m afraid you’re lacking in sympathy,” he remarked 
severely. 

Avice shrugged her shoulders. 

“Sympathy for me. I’ve noticed it a long time now.” 

“How long?” she asked with apparent nonchalance. 

“Since soon after we were married.” 

Avice sat alone, and brooded over the fire. 

He, too, had noticed an alteration in her since they had 
been married, even as she had known a change in him. 

She was eager to discover if she had been at fault, and 
to this end searched her memory for possible lapses from 
the loving duty she owed him: if she found herself in the 
wrong, she would hasten to make amends. 

Avice could not hide from herself that she had been 
short with him, or had given him scant attention, on the 
not infrequent occasions he had harped on his literary 
grievances : these had stood for a pitiful lack of pence 
with which to run the house; and it had often been on the 
tip of her tongue to suggest he should look out for some 
moderately paid job, where he would not be overworked, 
and could devote his leisure to writing. 

And should he take this ill, as there was no doubt of 
his doing, she could quote famous names who did uncon- 
genial, regularly paid work, in order to keep the pot boiling 
until they had won recognition. 

Avice had never dared to voice her thoughts: her hus- 
band was touchy; this, his touchiest spot: she could only 
wait and hope that, if there were no change in their for- 
tunes, such a course would suggest itself to him. 

When she was harassed by bills, the thought would 
come into mind, and this in spite of herself, that he had 
no business to take her from a comfortable home, and a 
husband who was not without his good qualities (Avice 
slurred over this) if he could not afford to keep her 
properly. 

True, she had done what she did with her eyes open, so 


258 A” PILLAR OF SALT 

far as eyes can be said to be opened which are blinded by 
passion. 

But she was the weaker vessel, he, the stronger: he 
should have set his face against “throwing caps over 
windmills” until he was on firmer ground. 

Still, it was no earthly good regretting the past: she 
had made her bed, and must now lie upon it. 

Avice gave her mind to ascertaining the causes of the 
bumpy mattress, the insufficient bed clothes : perhaps she 
might light on something that would make it more 
tolerable. 

So far, she had got to the fact that each of them con- 
plained of the other; and there was no denying (this 
wanted some acknowledging) that the mutual grievance 
had come into being after marriage. 

This was significant : possibly she was on the right 
track. 

Was the institution of marriage and not themselves re- 
sponsible? Avice asked herself. 

It was worth going into, particularly as she had to get 
through a long evening. 

She recalled words her old friend M. de Brillac had said 
on the subject; M. de Brillac, whom she had met once 
or twice during the first year of her marriage to Aubrey 
when the rapture and the roses had long begun to fade : 
before going further into things, she wondered what had 
become of the old Frenchman: she had no means of 
knowing, but had some sort of belief that he would never 
behold the hotel of his ancestors in the Marais quarter; 
and had gone from the lesser into the greater loneliness. 

In the old days (Avice’s synonym for her life with 
Leonard) he had mentioned what someone had said to 
the effect that marriage was the tomb of love. 

She had believed it then, but was loath to think so now ; 
to support the latter opinion, she called to mind the happy 
marriages she knew of both in Earl’s Court and in Thorn- 
ton Heath. 

There were quite a lot now she came to think of it; 
almost enough to contradict the assertion. 

There was surely no reason why she and Aubrey should 
not enjoy some measure of happiness! 


THE EXPERIMENT 


259 

The last time she had seen M. de Brillac, he had noticed 
her sad face (it was after a difference with Aubrey over 
nothing at all) and had said : 

‘They say that the quarrels of lovers are the renewal 
of love. It is a Latin proverb; but it is not so. The 
quarrels of lovers, madame, are nails in the coffin of 
love.” 

If she and Aubrey had not had open quarrels, they had 
come uncommonly near it: perhaps it amounted to the 
same thing. 

Then Avice recalled how M. de Brillac had said on the 
day she had so needed sympathy, and had taken him over 
her Earl’s Court home, that marriage was a prison house; 
and though it had gilded bars, it was none the less a place 
of confinement; and that if one thought to better one’s 
condition by making a change, one soon discovered one 
had only exchanged one prison for another. 

Avice told herself this was certainly true. 

She was circumscribed by her love for Aubrey; the 
necessity of sticking to him at all costs, howsoever he 
might change. 

Avice sighed at the hopelessness of it all. 

Possibly there was the reflection at the back of her 
mind that there was not too much gilt on the bars of the 
prison she inhabited : she could have done with a bit more : 
perhaps its absence was responsible for a good deal of 
what was amiss. 

On the other hand, she could put up with a lot, even 
more than she had done, if only the darkness of her way 
could be illumined by a little loving tenderness; at least 
more than she got. 

There came into her mind visions of the burning days 
and nights which had followed on the time she had joined 
her life to Aubrey’s; days and nights in which her world 
had seemed more than well lost for love. 

Home, husband, even little Irma, had been forgotten 
in the lust of happiness which had seized her; which had 
made her live with every fibre of her body. 

Time : marriage : custom : whatsoever it was : perhaps a 
combination of these had changed all that: and what had 


26 o 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


been the highest expression of sympathy had degenerated 
into a soulless habit. 

They had made such a beautiful start, it was all too sad 
for words. 

If she could only put some of the live past into the 
torpid present! 

Avice thought and thought, until light illumined her 
darkness. 

M. de Brillac, who was acquainted with the ways of 
two countries, had said something about husband and 
wife occupying the same room being a fatal mistake in 
married life; and for further information on the matter 
had referred her to the great Honore Balzac. 

She had forgotten it till now: perhaps there might be 
something in this to assist the solving of the problem with 
which she was confronted. 

Anyhow, it was worth thinking about. 

Some twenty minutes later, Avice went upstairs, and 
made the spare room ready for the night: she was not 
quite sure if the sheets were aired, but did not worry 
herself about this : it was worth running risk of a cold to 
win back something of what was essential to her happi- 
ness. 

At ten o’clock, she made two cups of cocoa, and went 
upstairs to her husband’s door with one of them. 

''Don’t come in!” he cried, on hearing her without. 

"Your cocoa, dear.” 

"I’ve just got the inspiration. Leave it outside.” 

Avice did as she was bid; went downstairs; drank her 
cocoa when it was sufficiently cool; waited till eleven; 
then put out the gas : locked up ; and went upstairs to the 
spare room, where she spent an indifferent night : she had 
not slept alone for so long. 

Whensoever she was awake, she was sure that Aubrey 
had not sought her out : it boded ill for the success of the 
experiment. 

The following morning, she was up betimes, and dressed 
herself before he was stirring: she insisted on Mrs. Bond 
taking him up a cup of tea; and upon the latter’s coming 
down, she said: 

"Did the master say anything?” 


THE EXPERIMENT 


261 


‘‘He asked if you was up.” 

“Anything else?” 

“That was all.” 

Avice awaited his appearance with impatience: she was 
eager to discover if he would refer to her absence during 
the night. 

To her surprise and delight, he kissed her on seeing her, 
and said: 

“What happened to my little girl last night?” 

“I slept alone.” 

“I suppose so as you weren’t with me.” 

“What time did you go to bed?” 

“Late. But tired as I was, I did miss my little one.” 

This was splendid: the breakfast of grilled bloaters 
seemed a feast: she blessed M. de Brillac; and built a ro- 
mantic castle with her fancies which she would occupy in 
the future. 

Her happiness was short-lived. 

Upon mentioning the matter of the spare room to Mrs. 
Bond, Avice perceived that good woman’s face harden. 

“It’s very little extra work,” remarked Avice. 

“Is it?” defiantly from Mrs. Bond, who had “been there” 
many times before, and was resolved to put her foot down 
on what she regarded as the thin edge of the wedge of 
extra work. 

“If it comes to that, I can do most, or all of it, myself.” 

“No, thank you, mum. There’s the extry washing; 
and what with extry sheets, an’ extry pillar cases, and 
extry towels, it’s more than I can do.” 

»But ” 

“Mrs. Score was speaking to me onny las’ night about 
my working for ’er. I should be sorry not to ‘oblige 
you’ any more, you being situated as you are, but if there’s 
any extry washin’, I goes.” 

Avice protested; almost pleaded; it was no use: she 
would have offered more money if she could have afforded 
it, but she dare not do this. 

And apart from that, her pride kicked at having to 
fight for a man’s love, a man for whom she had already 
done so much. 

So far as she could see, most things, certainly this, 


262 A PILLAR OF SALT 

resolved themselves into a matter of pounds, shillings and 
pence. 

Whether it was owing to the “Ring”; the greed of 
publishers ; or the stupidity of the reading public, she was 
pitifully short of these. 

And somewhere in her mind (she kept it in the back- 
ground so far as she could) her vexation of spirit was 
such as to make her wonder if what she had once looked 
on as the “Promised Land” were not really the “Wilder- 
ness”: and if what, in her ignorance and folly, she had 
taken to be the “Wilderness” were not a very fair sub- 
stitute for the “Promised Land.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


LOOKING BACKWARD 

Avice got out of the train at Earl’s Court: she trusted 
to a thick veil to prevent friends and acquaintances of the 
old days she might run against from recognising her. 

When she had got up in the morning, she had had no 
desire or intention to revisit the place identified with her 
first marriage; she had acted on an impulse set up by 
something that had occurred in a shop she had entered 
in Thornton Heath to make some purchases. 

She had been more than commonly depressed by the 
atmosphere of this suburb; Aubrey had gone to town, 
and she did not know when he would be back; she had 
had words with Mrs. Bond; to spend the long day in the 
loneliness inseparable from her home was hateful. 

She had not known what to do with herself. 

On going into the shop, she had stood beside a tall, 
upright, rather shabby, elderly man, who was supposed, 
on goodness knows what authority, to have held a com- 
mission in His Majesty’s army. 

He was complaining to the man behind the counter of 
the quality of some ginger beer which had been sent to 
his house. 

“Strange thing it is,” he said in a loud, staccato voice, 
“one can’t get ginger beer here like I used to get it in 
Malta. Suppose they’re not used to serving service 
people !” 

Whatsoever he was, or had been, his manner and speech 
took Avice back to Earl’s Court, and made her want to 
tread its familiar ways. 

The fare had been a consideration, but her eagerness w^s 
263 


264 A PILLAR OF SALT 

such as to make her reckless over the spending of a couple 
of shillings. 

Things had been going a little better at home during 
the last few weeks; Aubrey had got more reviewing, and 
although he declared it was journeyman’s work, and that 
he ought to be turning out stuff which should be written 
about by others, the money it brought in had made things 
easier. 

He had, also, placed some articles, and sold some 
stories. 

Not being compelled to take so much anxious thought 
for the morrow, Avice’s mind had leisure to devote itself 
to other matters, chief of which was a desire to establish 
some sort of social foothold. 

Thornton Heath was socially impossible for one who 
had lived on either side of the Park : besides going to Earl’s 
Court, she would call on Miss Pash with whom she had 
kept up an intermittent correspondence. 

Then she would call on Rene Sylvester who, in spite of 
all that had happened, had not quite dropped her; and 
who liked to see Avice on the occasion of her infrequent 
calls, and talk over old times. 

Her husband had drunk himself to death; she had been 
a widow nearly two years. 

Avice had not far to go for her first visit; Miss Pash 
had moved to rooms in Earl’s Court Gardens, so all Avice 
had to do was to cross the Earl’s Court Road. 

It was a fine February morning, and she was doubtful 
of finding such a busy woman indoors: Avice hoped to 
see her, as she had not forgotten the bait of social advance- 
ment which had been held out to her by Miss Soulsby and 
Mrs. Gaunt in the long ago, a bait it had not been worth 
her while to swallow at the time, but which she would 
now eagerly devour if it were dangled before her eyes. 

Miss Pash opened the door herself, and Avice’s spirits 
rose. 

'Tt’s you,” she said, and none too cordially. '‘Come 
inside. I’m very busy, but can spare you a moment.” 

Avice entered Miss Pash’s living-room, which was an 
unspeakable litter of any and everything; this shocked 
Avice, whom stressful days had made more methodical, 


LOOKING BACKWARD 265 

and had the effect of instilling some content with her 
home. 

Avice sat, and faced Miss Pash, who was stouter and 
coarser looking than of yore: her head was sunk in her 
neck ; and she had lost two of her front teeth : but she 
looked almost clean, and wore, what was for her, a smart 
frock. 

'‘You notice a change in me?’’ she asked of Avice. 

"I really believe I do.” 

"I take more care of my appearance, and have a bath 
twice a week. It looks better to be clean.” 

“And how is the ‘Movement’?” inquired Avice. 

“Need you ask?” 

“I suppose not.” 

“One has only to read the papers.” 

“Quite so. And I was wondering if I could do anything 
to help it.” 

Miss Pash became reflectively, disconcertingly, silent. 

“I’ve — I’ve a lot of time on my hands,” pursued Avice. 

“Quite so.” 

“And it’s nice to do something in which one can put 
one’s heart.” 

“Of course.” 

“That is why I thought I would come and see you.” 

“I see.” 

A discouraging silence was broken by Miss Pash, who 
asked : 

“Let me see, where are you living now?” 

“Thornton Heath.” 

“Where is that?” 

“Near Croydon.” 

“A promising field?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“H’m!” 

Avice played what she thought was her trump card. 

“Have you seen my friend Mrs. Gaunt lately?” 

“Mrs. Gaunt?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you say Mrs. Gaunt?” asked Miss Pash, and in a 
way that made Avice’s heart sink. 

“I did. Why?” 


266 A PILLAR OF SALT 

‘'Don’t you know that Mrs. Gaunt is a back number 
now?” 

“I wasn’t aware of it.” 

"Quite. She wasn’t at one with the militants, and so 
we’ve had to leave her behind.” 

"Oh !” 

"I dare say she fancied we couldn’t do without her; 
but she was greatly mistaken. We have so many offers 
of assistance, and from the most unexpected quarters, 
we can afford to pick and choose.” 

This was a poser for Avice: it as good as told her her 
services were not wanted, doubtless a consequence of 
the loss of caste she had suffered on account of her 
divorce. 

"I — I think my husband is more in sympathy with the 
'Movement’ than he was,” said Avice : she would not let 
the other forget she had married the man for whom she 
had left her first husband. 

"How is he doing?” coldly from Miss Pash. 

"Very well.” 

"I don’t often see his name in the papers.” 

"It’s there pretty often.” 

"I’m glad to hear it. It’s the only criterion of success 
as things go nowadays.” 

"Of course,” almost sighed Avice. 

Miss Pash looked significantly at the litter of papers on 
the table. 

Avice made a last effort to engage Miss Pash’s interest, 
and was not unsuccessful. 

"How is your sex propaganda getting on?” 

Miss Pash was all enthusiasm as she replied: 

"Splendidly. I’m convinced that that helps us along 
more than anything.” 

"Every woman her own latch-key?” 

"Oh! Where did you get that from?” 

"It’s what you used to preach. And my husband ” 

"We’ve changed all that.” 

"Indeed!” 

"We’re on a far more effective tack. We’ve discovered 
that all the frightful wrong-doing in the world is caused 
by men’s flagrant immorality. And that once we get votes 


LOOKING BACKWARD 267 

for women, everyone will be moral, and everything will 
be put right/' 

‘‘Is that so?" non-committally from Avice, who was 
scarcely of the same opinion. 

“Of course. Our new crusade is ‘Men chaste by Act 
of Parliament'; and, as you can easily see, this accounts 
for their hostility to our having the vote." 

“This is all new to me, and my husband " 

“Men are so intent on their own vicious pleasures, that 
they are fighting the ‘Movement,' tooth and nail, as it 
threatens to put an end to their selfish indulgence." 

Avice, who had not lived with two decent men for 
nothing, was not convinced. 

“Can you wonder at the enthusiasm that is being given 
to the ‘Cause'?" 

“But — tell me — in all — all these things, are the men 
always to blame?" 

“Always," decidedly from Miss Pash. 

“Surely there are some bad women?" 

“Not till they are corrupted by men." 

“Still, it takes two to — to make an intrigue." 

“But men nearly always have the money, and they 
pay us starvation wages so as to have us at their 
mercy." 

Avice could have repeated things she had been told by 
Aubrey, who had some acquaintance with the seamy side 
of London life, but as Miss Pash might be useful to her, 
she did not want to offend her. 

“I'd forgotten that," she said. 

“So I imagined." 

“I'm not a clever woman like you, who's studied the 
subject in all its bearings." 

Miss Pash was not insensible to flattery: she beamed on 
Avice, and said : 

“You only need enlightenment." 

“You must let me have some of your writings." 

“Take this; and this; and that. And let me know 
what you think of them when you've read them." 

Avice took the proffered pamphlets, thanked Miss Pash, 
and added as she rose to her feet: 

“I do wish I could do something to help you." 


268 


, A PILLAR OF SALT 

Miss Pash became thoughtful; made as if to speak; 
hesitated; looked critically at Avice; and then said: 

“The only opening that we might be able to offer at 
present is where you would have to show the stuff you 
are made of/^ 

“How do you mean?” 

“It would be something that required courage and re- 
source : but above all courage ; and lots of that.” 

“It sounds rather desperate.” 

“It is. I’m speaking of the van of the militant section.” 

“Smashing windows?” 

“That’s nothing to some of the work that would be 
required of you.” 

“You must let me think it over.” 

“And of course, if the worst came to the worst, you 
would glory in being a martyr for the ‘Cause’ !” 

“I must see what my husband says.” 

“I shouldn’t listen overmuch to a mere man, unless he 
is with us heart and soul. And you’re still a pretty woman, 
and looks usually appeal to a magistrate.” 

“But imprisonment would mean separation from my 
husband.” 

“Otherwise, you might consider helping us?” 

“Of course.” 

“H’m!” 

Miss Pash mused for a moment or two, and said : 

“I don’t mind telling you this. I don’t know how 
you’re situated financially ” 

“My husband is doing very well,” interrupted Avice. 

“That alters things.” 

“What were you going to say?” 

“Well — er — er — there’s a lot of money in the ‘Move- 
ment.’ We are not insensible of unmistakable services 
rendered. Some daring souls earn quite a lot.” 

Avice took leave of Miss Pash, and promised to call 
again soon. 

She was dissatisfied with her visit: Miss Pash had as 
good as told her that the social declension she had suffered 
did not make her the welcome recruit she would have been 
in the long ago; that she was only possible if she did the 
dirty work of the “Cause.” 


LOOKING BACKWARD 269 

The idea of earning money by such means was repug- 
nant. 

The rebuff she had suffered put her out of heart for 
calling on Rene Sylvester just yet: she walked aimlessly 
about, and was repeatedly jarred by insistent memories 
which were awakened by familiar scenes until she almost 
wished she had not come. 

She occasionally passed old friends and acquaintances, 
this in spite of the fact that Earl’s Court was on the down- 
grade, and that many of the former residents had shaken 
its dust from their feet. 

Those she met were well-turned-out, happy-looking girls 
and matrons, who seemed as if they had not a care in the 
world. 

Not a few stared curiously at her as though they half 
recognised her. 

Avice did not seek to hide from herself that she envied 
these women, whose husbands were mostly comfortably 
off ; who were not weighed down with financial worries ; 
whose social standing was vastly better than hers. 

They were going from one tradesman to another, paying 
the books, and ordering food for satisfying meals, which 
they would take with husbands and fathers, who were 
away for the day, and who came back at night, perhaps 
a bit tired, but delighted to see their women folk, and 
spend their evenings, either at home, or in congenial social 
distraction. 

And Avice did not forget that at the time of her mad 
infatuation for Pinnick she had heartily despised these 
women because their lives, as she had imagined, were 
innocent of the love that raged in her heart. 

This reflection further saddened her; it brought home 
to her some of the price she had paid for being a law unto 
herself. 

She had half a mind to go back without trying to see 
Rene. 

A clock (she had long since parted with her wrist watch) 
told her it was nearly one: in any case, she would not call 
on her friend at this hour; it would look as though she 
wanted a meal ; she was feeling faint, so she entered the 
ABC tea-shop which faces the station. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


270 

She ordered eggs on toast, a cup of warm milk, and as 
an indulgence, for which she had qualms of conscience, a 
twopenny piece of Madeira cake. 

Whilst consuming these, and feeling better for the nour- 
ishment, she was aware of being closely regarded by a 
man at a neighbouring table: this was no unusual ex- 
perience, but, on chancing to glance in his direction, she 
saw he was Mr. Cuthbert Smee, with whom she had danced 
at the ‘‘Dudley”: he caught her eye and inclined his head. 

She had never liked Mr. Smee, and instinctively mis- 
trusted him for all his pattering about parsons, and 
churches, and “churchy” people. 

Nevertheless the fact of his recognising and acknowl- 
edging her cheered her : she was not in the position of one 
who could pick and choose her friends. 

She bowed and smiled to Mr. Smee, and took care not 
to look at him again; upon her getting up to leave the 
tea-shop, he also rose, and came hot foot on her heels. 

“May I speak to you?” he said, as he raised his hat. 

“Why not?” 

“It is such a pleasure to see you again.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Which way are you going?” 

“Why?” 

“May I walk with you a little way?” 

“If youVe nothing better to do.” 

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” 

Although she let him go with her, Avice took the earliest 
opportunity of turning up a side-street: she did not want 
to run into any of his friends. 

They talked of commonplace things, but all the time 
it was evident he was regarding her with ill-concealed ad- 
miration; once or twice, she was almost sure his hand, of 
set purpose, touched hers. 

When she made as if to leave him, he asked after her 
husband; and then if she were happy; upon her replying 
in an unmistakable affirmative to this last question, he 
held the hand she gave him, and hoped they should soon 
meet again. 

She regretted she had spoken to him directly after she 
had left him; it had been a sorry surrender to her pride, 


LOOKING BACKWARD 


271 

and for no other reason than that he was a link with the 
life she had done with. 

About three, Avice bent her steps in the direction of 
Earl’s Court Square: during the time that had elapsed 
since she had parted from Mr. Smee, she had come to the 
conclusion that her desire to speak to him was a further 
measure of all she had lost. 

She devoutly hoped she would find Mrs. Sylvester in; 
being with her might do something to heal her wounded 
self-esteem. 

On getting into Earl’s Court Square, she perceived her 
friend walking towards her house: Avice hastened her 
steps, but, upon seeing Rene stop and speak to someone 
who resembled Mrs. Norman Butson, she turned back 
and kept watch from the corner. 

The two women presently parted, and Rene Sylvester 
entered her home. 

Eive minutes later, Avice knocked at the door. 

“Is your mistress in?” she asked of the maid who an- 
swered it. 

The maid hesitated before saying: 

“N-no, madam.” 

“Are you sure?” asked Avice in surprise. 

“Quite, madam.” 

“I thought I saw her go in just now. Would you mind 
seeing if you haven’t made a mistake?” 

“Mrs. Pinnick, isn’t it, madam?” 

“Yes.” 

Avice waited some two or three minutes till the maid 
returned. 

“I’m sorry, madam. My mistress is out.” 

“Oh ! Please tell her I called.” 

Avice scarcely knew how she got away: Rene’s refusal 
to see her was like a blow in the face. 

Her friendship was a stand-by to which Avice had 
desperately clung; its existence had done a lot to console 
her in her hours of wretchedness. 

And away from being separated from a woman she 
liked and respected, she relied on Rene for news of Irma 
and Leonard. 

It was thus she had heard of Leonard’s long and serious 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


272 

illness after his wife had run away ; of the twenty thousand 
pounds, and the collection of string and matches, Aunt 
Em had astonished all who had known her penurious 
ways by leaving to her nephew; of the deep affection 
there was between father and daughter : such was his love 
and devotion to little Irma that she often called him 
“mother/’ 

Now it was evident her friend did not wish to see her, 
Avice recollected that the last two or three times they 
had met, Rene had been a little distant. 

Avice had taken no notice of it, but recalled it now : 
she could only suppose that kind friends had known of 
her visits, and had advised Mrs. Sylvester to drop a woman 
who had been through the divorce court. 

Avice thought of these things, and her heart was heavy 
with grief. 

It was as though there were no end to her sorrows. 

She wondered if life were worth living since all it 
brought were disillusion and bitterness. 

Like a sorely stricken animal, she instinctively bethought 
herself of her lair: there she would hide, and travail in 
secret. 

Avice looked about her to see where she was. 

Of their own accord her footsteps had taken her to the 
house in Eardley Crescent where she had lived with 
Leonard ; she stood without the railings of her old home. 

It was empty, and boards announced it was to let: the 
windows were dirty; and two or three panes were broken. 

And as Avice retraced her steps, it occurred to her that 
the condition of the house was symbolical of her life. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE UNEXPECTED 

Aubrey was not in by the time Avice got back, weary in 
body as in mind. 

She had told Mrs. Bond to let the dining-room fire go 
out and lay it again, so that it would be ready to light 
on her return. 

She put a match to this and, more with the idea of 
having something to do than anything else, made herself 
a cup of tea. 

Tea heartened her until she recollected that all she had 
to look forward to was a dull evening by herself, with 
Aubrey shut up in his study. 

At the same time, the rebuffs she had received made 
her home the more to her ; it would be a long while before 
she again set foot in Earl’s Court; for the future, she 
would confine such social ambitions as she had to Thorn- 
ton Heath. 

The day’s events inclined her heart to Aubrey; it was 
for him she had given up so much ; since she had now to 
go without the things in which she had formerly been 
well off, he, and his love, were of greater moment than 
ever. 

She longed for his return, and almost prayed he would 
be in a good temper : she knew from experience that after 
he had been away for the day he would only care about 
the work he had to do. 

All the time she was doing things about the house, she 
listened for his footfall: on hearing his key in the lock, 
her heart seemed to come up in her throat; it was as 
much as she could do to go into the hall to meet him. 

‘That you, Avice ?” he said on seeing her. 

273 


274 a: pillar of salt 

His voice was weary; and she could see by his face he 
was worried. 

'‘Yes, dear/’ she replied, and resisted an inclination to 
put her arms about his neck, and shed tears on his 
shoulder. 

"Hang up my coat, will you, dearest! Pm so tired.” 

The endearing word went to her heart : she could neither 
move nor speak and looked at him with big, tender eyes. 

Perhaps he needed sympathy, even as she ached for his : 
he half inclined his arms to her, and the next moment he 
was pressing her to his heart. 

"Glad to see me, little one?” he asked. 

"So glad : so very glad.” 

"Pm glad to see you.” 

"Darling!” she murmured. 

"I haven’t been forgotten!” 

"Indeed, no !” 

"And you were waiting for my return?” 

"Of course.” 

"And ” 

"Don’t speak for a moment — I want to appreciate ” 

"Appreciate what?” he interrupted. 

"You— This.” 

She closed her eyes and stood in a delicious silence: 
then, she sighed a long sigh, kissed the sleeve of his coat, 
and thought to herself : "I dared not hope for this.” 

She noticed he was regarding her curiously, whereupon 
she said: 

"Let me take your coat. I don’t know what’s happened 
to me.” 

He was not unmindful of the catch in her voice, and 
would have questioned her, had she not forestalled him. 

"What sort of a day have you had ?” she asked. 

"Rotten.” 

"I am so sorry. Don’t tell me now.” 

"But ” 

"To-morrow; any other time than to-night. The even- 
ing’s begun so well, we won’t do anything to spoil it.” 

"Perhaps you’re right.” 

"And you won’t do any work to-night?” 

"N-no.” 


THE UNEXPECTED 


275 


‘^You’ll please me in this just for once?’^ 

“I’m afraid I’m pleasing myself as well. I’ve had such 
a day, I don’t feel like writing.” 

“The more reason we should comfort each other.” 

She put on the bettle to make some more tea: while it 
was boiling, she insisted on taking ot¥ his boots; putting 
on his slippers; and making him comfortable by the fire. 

He kissed her again, and she thought: “Quite like old 
times.” 

“And what has little Avice been doing with herself 
to-day?” he asked, after he had sipped his tea and lit a 
cigarette. 

“The usual.” 

“Haven’t been anywhere?” 

“I went to Earl’s Court.” 

“Earl’s Court!” 

“Yes, dearest.” 

“Why, in Heaven’s name, there?” 

“I thought I would.” 

“Meet anyone you knew?” 

“Only Miss Pash.” 

“Miss Pash!” 

“She’s an ardent suffragette.” 

“I remember. But I can’t make out why you went 
there.” 

“Merely a fancy.” 

“I dare say it’s done you good.” 

“In what way?” 

“Recalled you to the narrowness of the life you used 
to live.” 

She was so in the mood to make the most of her present 
happiness that she did not question what he had said: she 
remained mum, and he went on : 

“A dull round of empty, brainless pleasures, which were 
a pitiful make-believe of being the real thing. There was 
scarcely a person who had an intellectual interest.” 

“There were some nice people.” 

“Thank Heaven you don’t mean by ‘nice’ what my 
cousins the Boscombe-Milderoys would have meant.” 

‘!What would they mean?” 

“Someone they, in their innocence of heart, imagined 


A' PILLAR OF SALT 


2^6 

was a social somebody. I daresay you thought the same 
thing yourself before I came into your life. But I flatter 
myself you think differently now.” 

Once more Avice held her peace; and for the same 
reason as before. 

She knelt before the fender and warmed her hands at 
the fire. 

^‘Coming down, I met Welpman at the station.” 

^‘Oh !” 

'‘I asked him to come round this evening.” 

‘‘Why to-night, dear?” asked Avice. 

“Why shouldn’t he?” 

“I want to spend it with you.” 

“I gave him a sort of general invitation. I don’t sup- 
pose he’ll come.” 

“If that’s so ” 

“I rather like Welpman,” he interrupted. 

“He’s inoffensive.” 

“And he’s different from the crowd about here. True, 
he’s only in an insurance office; but he reads; and he’s 
decently connected. His father is a parson in Wiltshire.” 

It was on the tip of Avice’s tongue to say, and without 
reflecting on her husband : “Quite a nice man.” 

She pulled up in time; otherwise he might have thought 
she was making fun of him, which might have put him 
out for the rest of the evening. 

Avice, for once, busied herself over the dinner with a 
light heart; she could not remember being so happy for 
quite a long time; and was determined to make the most 
of her evening, come what might, on the morrow. 

And apart from anything else, her happiness was a 
defiance to Earl’s Court, and the slights it had put upon 
her during the day. 

Aubrey further delighted Avice by helping her clear 
away the things: she wanted him to sit quiet, but he 
insisted; and was rewarded with a loving kiss. 

It was really like old times come again. 

Then they sat before the fire; and while they talked 
confidentially, Avice was sensible of something of the old 
exquisite sympathy between them: this further lightened 
her heart, and made up for much she had gone through. 


THE UNEXPECTED 


277 

The clang of the gate was followed by a double knock 
on the door, whereupon Avice knew a sinking of spirit. 

“Who can that be?” asked Aubrey. 

“Mr. Welpman, of course.” 

“I suppose it is.” 

“Why must he come to-night?” pouted Avice. 

“I don't suppose he’ll stay long.” 

“Can’t you say you’re busy, or something?” asked Avice, 
as her husband made for the door. 

“Then he’d expect to see you. Better get it over.” 

Mr. Welpman, who stood for Blood in Thornton Heath, 
was physically unimpressive: he was not tall; had bottle 
shoulders; wore spectacles; and was not overburdened 
with chin: but he was a gentleman, and his pleasing voice 
was as music to Avice’s soul. 

He hoped he had not called in too soon after Pinnick’s 
invitation; if he had not come this evening, he did not 
know when he would be free; he was a bit of a singer, 
which meant his getting a lot of invitations. 

“It’s good of you to come at all,” said Aubrey, with 
unwonted humility. 

“And how do you find literature?” asked Mr. Welp- 
man after he had addressed some remarks to Avice. 

“Flourishing.” 

“You’re a very lucky man.” 

“In what way?” 

“Not having to go to town every day.” 

“Think so?” 

“If you don’t believe me, try it and see. And it must 
be so nice for Mrs. Pinnick having you at home all day.” 

“That is an advantage,” from Avice. 

“There’s a lot that appeals to me in your life,” he said 
to Pinnick. “There must be a sense of adventure about 
it.” 

“There is that.” 

“And doing your work in your own way, you can take 
exercise when you feel you want it.” 

“Is that such an advantage?” 

“It would be to me. I suffer from dyspepsia,” de- 
clared Mr. Welpman. 

This led to a discussion on indigestion, during which' 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


278 

Mr. Welpman enumerated the many remedies he had 
tried with discouraging results : that very morning, how- 
ever, he had heard of something else, and was going to 
give it a trial. 

Avice soon got bored; she wished Mr. Welpman any- 
where rather than in her home; and believed that, after 
all, her evening would be spoiled. 

Perhaps Aubrey perceived she was getting in the dumps, 
for he turned the conversation by saying: 

“I wish we had a piano, so you could sing.’^ 

^‘But I don’t play my own accompaniments.” 

'‘My wife plays.” 

“Of course: I should have thought of that.” 

Avice’s spirits revived, and she said : 

“What kind of songs do you sing? Sentimental?” 

“Very rarely.” 

“Not!” 

“I’m rather singular in that. I don’t care at all for 
anything wishy-washy : I like the old patriotic songs : 
‘Hearts of Oak’; ‘The Death of Nelson’; ‘Boys of the Bull- 
dog Breed’ : all that kind of thing.” 

“I should like to hear you,” from Avice. 

“I dare say we are sure to meet out somewhere or 
another.” 

“We hardly ever go out.” 

“Not!” 

“In fact, never.” 

“You do surprise me! I should have thought you would 
have gone out a lot.” 

“Indeed! And why?” 

“I know your husband is an author; and that literary 
men don’t, as a rule, care for that sort of thing. But, 
with you, I should have thought it would have been dif- 
ferent.” 

This not a little delighted Avice ; she thought Mr. Welp- 
man attractive in spite of his insignificance; and was once 
more surprised at realisation not being at one with antici- 
pation in the matter of his call. 

Then he exploded what was very like a bomb-shell. 

“There’s a lot of talk about you in the neighbourhood, 
Mrs. Pinnick.” 


THE UNEXPECTED 


279 


Avice sat bolt upright. 

'T mean among the nice people. You’re looked on as 
one with a fascinating past.” 

Avice did not know where to put her eyes, and faltered : 

'Tn what way?” 

‘‘Weren’t you born and brought up in the West End 
of London?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“And near Hyde Park?” 

“Yes.” 

“I heard it from someone who knew someone who knew 
your people some years back. He met your father last 
Christmas, and asked after you, and heard you had mar- 
ried a writer named Pinnick.” 

Avice sighed relief : for once the fates had been kind ; 
contrary to her suspicions, the story of her first marriage 
had not got out. 

“I wonder you don’t go out more — that is, if you care 
for that sort of thing,” resumed Mr. Welpman. “I know 
one or two nice people who’d call if they only dared.” 

“Am I so dreadful?” laughed Avice. 

“Literary people are supposed to be keen on solitude.” 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get some whisky,” said 
Pinnick. 

“Not for me.” 

“Nonsense !” 

“It always puts me back — with my digestion, I mean.” 

“A little wouldn’t hurt you.” 

“It must be a very little.” 

“Let me get it,” urged Avice. 

“You sit there, dear. I shan’t be a minute,” said 
Aubrey. 

The very little whisky made Mr. Welpman astonishingly 
serious; he became almost painfully lugubrious; he hardly 
spoke; and looked so pitifully insignificant that Avice was 
quite sorry for him. 

Upon Aubrey leaving the room to verify a quotation he 
had mentioned, Mr. Welpman said : 

“Terrible thing to have to put up with things as I do, 
Mrs. Pinnick.” 

“It must be.” 


28 o 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘Tt’s affected my whole life/' 

'T'm sorry." 

“Well, you may be. I’m not at all the man for an 
office life; quite the last man in the world for that sort 
of thing. I should love a life crowded with adventure." 

“How do you mean?" 

“Shipwrecked one day; being captured by pirates the 
next; having to fight for my life; and escape, the next; 
then half killed in a motor smash; and so on and so on. 
That’s the sort of life I should like." 

“I can’t make out why you should have gone to Earl’s 
Court," said Aubrey, after Mr. Welpman had gone. 

“I suppose it was to see Miss Pash !" 

“But why?" 

“Something to do." 

“What had she to say for herself ?" 

Avice repeated much of what Miss Pash had said. 

“Do you know what’s wrong with most of these wretched 
women?" asked Aubrey, when she had done. “Not only 
are they suffering from the sex consciousness which is 
part and parcel of the age, but they’re afflicted with sexual 
‘sour grapes.’ ’’ 

“Oh!" from Avice: she was burning to speak of inti- 
mate things. 

“One day their cry is ‘Latch-keys for Women’; the 
next, ‘Man Made Moral by Act of Parliament’: but what- 
ever it is, at the back of their minds is the intention 
of having some of the fun. And since women stand to 
lose by irregular love-affairs, they’re really out for 
polygamy." 

“Men having more than one wife?" 

“That’s what polygamy usually means, little Avice. And 
I see some of ’em are openly advocating it." 

“You wouldn’t like more than one wife, Aubrey!" 

“One’s as much as most men can manage. But what 
these dear women don’t see is that, in acting as they are 
doing, they’re ‘queering their own pitch.’ ’’ 

“How do you mean?" 

“Whether it’s latch-keys for women, or polygamy for 
unattractive spinsters, they stand to lose everything they’ve 


THE UNEXPECTED 


281 


gained throughout the centuries. Directly women com- 
pete for the favours of the same man, he has them at 
his mercy, and they are his veriest slaves: which means 
that all this talk of sex equality is only so much moon- 
shine.” 

During the ensuing silence, Avice was once more con- 
scious of the exquisite sympathy which existed between 
her husband and herself ; which had done so much to 
deflect her from the course of her duty to Leonard. 

It was, indeed, quite like old times. 

^‘Why isn’t every evening like this?” she asked pres- 
ently. 

"‘How do you mean?” 

^ Why can’t we always be happy like this ?” 

‘‘Aren’t you usually happy, little Avice?” 

“Not as I am now,” she sighed. 

‘‘But ” ^ 

“To-night, it’s as if we were all the world to each 
other,” she said: then, after a pause: “It’s almost as it 
was before — before we got married.” 

“Not quite?” 

“Well— is it?” 

“You know best,” he said non-committally. 

“And — and — you will be shocked at what I am going 
to say ” 

“Out with it. This is the time for confidences.” 

“I — I sometimes wonder if we’d been happier if we 
hadn’t got married.” 

“What next!” from Aubrey, with mock surprise. 

“Things haven’t been quite the same since.” 

“Haven’t they?” said Aubrey absently. 

“Have they?” 

She had suspected at the time that he had fulfilled his 
promise to marry her after the decree nisi was made abso- 
lute with some reluctance ; she had often, as now, wished to 
ask if this were so ; she forebore because she did not want 
to run any risk of spoiling her evening: instead, she 
watched him narrowly, and waited in some suspense for 
what he might say. 

“I suppose it’s the old story,” he remarked, after he had 
refilled his pipe. 


282 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


"Tn what way?” 

“Financial anxiety and romance don't run too well to- 
gether.” 

“I don’t see why it should be.” 

“Worry is supposed to kill the love instinct quicker 
than anything. If one’s taking thought for the morrow, 
one’s scarcely in the mood for romance.” 

“Is that how you feel about it, Aubrey?” 

“I’m merely generalising.” 

“Oh !” 

“And ” 

“Don’t speak for a moment. I want to think.” 

Aubrey putfed at his pipe; Avice’s mind went back to 
her talk with M. de Brillac on the day she had shown him 
over her house. 

He had spoken of the consequences of confining love, 
that should be as free as the birds of the air, in the fetters 
of matrimony; and of the sorry results which all too often 
ensued: it was as though her own married life were an 
object-lesson in what he had said. 

But she was loath to believe it, even now; and voiced 
her protest to her husband. 

“Some married people are very happy, and love each 
other all their lives, and are heart-broken if anything 
happens !” 

“They haven’t sordid cares, little Avice.” 

“No one goes through life without trouble, and — 
and ” 

^‘Well ” 

“I should have thought trouble would make those who 
loved more to each other.” 

“Even sordid cares?” 

“Even sordid cares.” 

“Sentimental Avice !” 

“I don’t care if I am,” she replied defiantly. 

Aubrey put down his pipe, and said : 

“I should be happy enough if I could get along more 
with my writing.” 

“It would certainly mean more money.” 

“What did I tell you? Financial worry is the enemy 
of happiness in married life.” 


THE UNEXPECTED 283 

“I — I suppose there is something in it/^ she dolefully 
admitted. 

'‘And do you know what’s wrong with you?” 

"What?” 

"Your flying off to Earl’s Court to-day has enlightened 
me.” 

"Well?” 

"You hanker after the 'Cities of the Plain.’ ” 

"Isn’t that what you call Earl’s Court?” 

"Yes. They are being consumed in their own vanity and 
stupidity. I warned you, and took you away in time ; and 
all would have been well if you had not continually looked 
back.” 

"I wasn’t aware ” 

"None the less, you have done it. And because you 
look back, you have been punished, my dear Avice, like 
another Lot’s wife. You have been turned into a 'Pillar of 
Salt.’ ” 

"A what?” 

"What I say — a Pillar of Salt. Whatever you may do, 
now or in the future, never, never, never look back.” 

"Anyway, I won’t to-night.” 

"Why to-night?” 

"Because I am so happy with you, dearest.” 

Something in her voice made him throw her a kiss, 
whereupon she went over to him and sat upon his knee. 

“Why can’t every evening be like this?” she asked a 
little later. 

“Are you so happy, sweetheart?” 

"So happy.” 

“In a week you would be bored.” 

"Do you mean there’s no such things as continuous 
happiness ?” 

"Not of the same kind.” 

"But ” 

"But it’s no reason why we shouldn’t be happy now.” 

Avice did not sleep for some time that night: she lay 
stark awake; and thought, and thought, and thought. 

In the way of us all, she coloured the past with the 
present; and told herself that things were not really so 
very bad. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


284 

If she had a poor time now, she had had Her great 
passion, which most women want, and so few of them get. 

She had dared all for the desire of her heart ; and what- 
soever price she paid for her daring, nothing, no one could 
take away from her the ineffaceable memories which would 
be her most precious possession while there was breath in 
her body. 

She had lived ; and nothing could alter that. 

And as for the future, so far as she could see, all she 
had to fear was want of money; otherwise, that wretched 
“Ring,” which was jealous of her clever husband. 

But Aubrey loved her in his heart : she was sure of that 
after to-night; and for her sake he would strive, and 
strive, until he prevailed ; which would mean removing the 
only obstacle to their happiness. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


WRAITHS 

Aubrey was so taken up with the youngish woman who 
sat on his farther side that Avice had to ask him twice 
for the toast before he heard her. 

Even then he looked at her vacantly, and she might 
have had to ask again, had not Mr. Wiggens, the pro- 
prietor of “Montacute,’’ Endsleigh Road, Bournemouth, 
who had served an apprenticeship behind a draper’s coun- 
ter before he had married money and taken a boarding- 
house, said from the head of the table : 

“And the next thing, please, Mrs. Pinnick?” 

“I merely wanted some toast.” 

“Jam, marmalade, butter, toast, Mrs. Pinnick?” cried 
Mr. Wiggens in the manner of one urging ladies’ require- 
ments over the counter. 

“Some marmalade and toast, please.” 

“Marmalade and toast, Mrs. Pinnick!” he called to one 
of the servants. 

Avice, who every moment expected Mr. Wiggens to 
call out “Sign, please,” helped herself to the toast and 
marmalade which were brought, and went on with her 
breakfast. 

She had had a stroke of luck a few weeks back, a stroke 
of luck which contained an alloy of bitterness. 

A distant relative she had scarcely met had left her a 
hundred pounds : he had said in his will that, but for her 
having left her first husband, it would have been six 
thousand. 

For all her searchings of heart on the matter, she had 
been duly thankful for the hundred, which had come at 

285 


286 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


an opportune moment: the rent had been overdue; there 
had been trouble over the gas ; and she had had to sutler 
some unpleasant interviews on the doorstep. 

Her legacy had enabled her to get straight; to buy some 
clothes she badly wanted; and to spend a fortnight by the 
sea with her husband. 

There had been a lot of discussion before they had come 
away: Aubrey was all for a quiet spot, while his wife 
wished for something quite different. 

She had had her way, and they had come to the seaside 
town which is one of the holiday Meccas of the many 
brands of ^‘Selectness,” which seeks a place where it can 
disport itself genteelly without fear of contact with the 
‘‘Vulgar.” 

If Avice could have afforded it, she would have gone 
to one of the vast caravanserai, where there were pine- 
trees and a lake in the grounds; where (joy of joys to 
their frequenters) one dressed for dinner as if it were a 
matter of course; and where one played at being smart 
for two or three weeks out of the fifty- two. 

This was impossible, so they had come to a middling 
sort of place where, for four guineas a week, husband and 
wife were done surprisingly well. 

She had keenly looked forward to the change, with the 
result that, if anything, she had been more disappointed 
than otherwise. 

Aubrey had annoyed her a lot. 

He came out with her in his oldest things, and all but 
refused to walk with her on the pier or along the new 
undercliff road. 

He preferred to loaf in the bookshops; inform the pro- 
prietor who he was; and talk books by the hour. 

Before he had come away, a journalistic friend had 
written flatteringly about him and his writings in an ob- 
scure literary journal: this had given him an attack of 
swollen head ; he had let pretty well everyone at “Monta- 
cute” know he was an author; he would ostentatiously 
write in the drawing-room when it was full of people; and 
he repeatedly told Avice that once it got about in Bourne- 
mouth he was there, admirers of his works would not fail 
to call. 


WRAITHS 


287 


So far no one had been. 

And he had worried Avice by his attentions to the 
youngish woman who sat on his left at table. 

She was a Miss Myra Billen, who came from ‘Talmyra/’ 
Woodland Avenue, Palmer’s Green, London, N. 

She would not have been bad-looking if she had taken 
more pains with herself ; her clothes were put on any- 
how, and her fluffy, fairish hair looked after itself. 

What she lacked in smartness, however, was more than 
made up for by her culture, of which she was not only 
conscious herself, but saw to it that others should be 
aware of its existence. 

On learning Aubrey was a real live author, she had 
made a dead set at him, and had thrice informed him 
(and the table) that she had recently obtained the per- 
mission of the powers that be in the Temple to read 
“Pendennis” in its precincts in order to get the requisite 
‘"Atmosphere.” 

She so flattered Pinnick’s vanity as to make him neg- 
lect his wife at meal-times to talk Art and Literature 
with her. 

As has been said, this defection of Aubrey’s worried 
Avice. 

But, and this carried its own significance, she was more 
worried that she did not mind more than she did. 

Perhaps the money she had missed rankled in her mind; 
or it may have been that her well-to-do environment 
brought home to her all she had lost by deserting her first 
husband. 

Breakfast over, the inevitable question arose of what 
they were to do for the day. 

‘T thought of going on the front,” said Avice. 

“Oh!” from Aubrey. 

“And you?” 

“I thought of walking to Boscombe and loafing about 
there.” 

“Please yourself.” 

“Don’t you want me, dear?” 

“Not if you don’t want to come.” 

“It isn’t that, only ” 

“Only what?” she asked, as he hesitated. 


288 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘T wanted to look in at a bookshop. Pve got the man 
there to display my last book, and — and ’’ 

'‘Leave it at that. You know where to find me if you 
want me.” 

'T always want you, Avice. But we’ll leave it at 
that.” 

Avice went upstairs to put on her hat : on coming down, 
she ran into Miss Billen. 

"Where are you going?” she asked of Culture. 

"To get my ‘Kouprin.’ ” 

"What is that?” 

"The great Russian genius.” 

"Of course,” from Avice, who had not the remotest 
idea what she had meant. 

"I’m going to lend it to your brilliant husband when 
I’ve read him.” 

"Going to read out of doors?” 

"Yes. I’m going Boscombe way.” 

Avice smiled wryly, and passed on. 

She did not like it, but once more she was surprised she 
was not more put out than she w^as. 

Avice took a tram to the "Square,” and then crossed the 
gardens by following the course of the ridiculously civil- 
ised River Bourne to the sea, where she turned to the left, 
and walked along the new drive. 

It was the finest of fine days, and already most of 
juvenile Bournemouth seemed to have found its way to 
the sands : Avice took a vacant seat and watched the 
little ones at play. 

Her attention wandered to the smartly dressed women 
who were beginning to appear; they looked so happy, and 
free from care, she envied them from the bottom of her 
heart. 

Such frocks, and hats, and stockings, and shoes, had 
long been beyond her reach; her mind went back to the 
time when she had taken their possession as a matter of 
course. 

Aubrey’s warning occurred to her with regard to hank- 
ering after what he called the "Cities of the Plain”; and 
of his likening her to a "Pillar of Salt” because she looked 
back. 


WRAITHS 


289 

“All very well for him,” she told herself ; “he, as a 
man, who did not care two straws how he looked, could 
never know what it was for a woman, who had had, and 
loved, pretty things, to go about shabby.” 

He always said she looked nice, and that a woman’s 
appearance had nothing to do with what she had on. 

Avice knew otherwise : fine feathers did make fine birds ; 
and women could tell at a glance, and to the uttermost 
farthing, the cost of anything she wore. 

It might be different if he were always tender and 
loving: that would have helped her to put up with a lot. 

Of late, however, if he had not been writing of an 
evening, he would read, and read, and read till late in the 
night; it was as much as she dared to open her mouth; 
even if she went up to bed, she had to go on tiptoe for 
fear of disturbing him. 

Since it had come to this, she might just as well be back 
in Earl’s Court, or wherever Leonard was now, she told 
herself; and have not lost sweet little Irma; her social 
standing; her friends; and not be overwhelmed with sordid 
cares. 

Thought of Irma urged her attention to the children on 
the beach. 

If she had only a little one of her own! 

Poor as she was, it would amply compensate her for all 
she had to put up with; and so long as she had a child to 
love and tend, Aubrey could read for ever for all she 
cared. 

Avice’s disappointment was forgotten in the love for 
Irma which welled in her heart. 

After all said and done, the most significant moment in 
her life was after Irma had been born, and she had held 
her against her heart: her most intimate experiences with 
Aubrey in the early days of their romantic union were as 
nothing to this. 

Other things might be, were almost, forgotten : this was 
of the very stuff of life, and as such would be with her 
for so long as she drew breath. 

Avice’s extremity made her cover her eyes with her 
hands; her heart hungered for Irma as it had never hun- 
gered before. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


290 

A child’s cry of pain made her look up; a little girl had 
trodden on something, and hurt her foot; she had run to 
her nurse, who made light of the injury. 

It occurred to Avice how, if it had been little Irma, she 
would have clasped her to her heart, and kissed away her 
tears. 

Avice did not suffer any more; she could not have if 
she had wanted to ; she was quite herself, and idly watched 
the passers-by. 

A handsome, richly dressed woman in the early thirties, 
who was loitering near by, caught her eye : she was leading 
a chow, whose collar was decorated with a big blue bow. 

‘‘One of the lucky ones,” mused Avice, until the in- 
evitable qualification came into her mind : 

“Leads an empty, stupid life; and probably does not 
know the meaning of love and romance. But one can’t 
have everything!” 

At that moment, the woman’s face lighted up with an 
expression that could only have been awakened by the 
sight of someone who was very near to her heart; a tall, 
youngish man came up to her; they were so delighted at 
meeting that they held each other’s hands for quite a long 
time without realising what they were doing. 

He must have been a friend of long standing, for the 
chow condescended to be pleased to see him. 

This suggestion of romance inclined Avice’s thoughts to 
her husband. 

She wondered what he might be doing, until it came 
into her mind he was probably spouting Art and Litera- 
ture to Miss Billen on the cliff at Boscombe. 

Avice was not going to have any more of this, so got up, 
and walked towards where she could ascend the cliff. 

She had not got very far before a woman’s voice said in 
her ear: 

“Is that you, dear?” 

Avice turned, and saw she had been addressed by Mrs. 
Spencer-Paxton, who had been one of her Earl’s Court 
friends : she was the woman who had once been in service. 

Avice had always rather looked down upon her because 
of this : but time had changed all that ; nowadays, she was 
thankful for the smallest of social mercies. 


WRAITHS 


291 

After they had exchanged greetings, Mrs. Spencer-Pax- 
ton said: 

thought it was you, dear. Where are you staying?” 

Avice told her. 

“I’m at the 'Monte Carlo’ with my husband.” (It 
was one of the caravanserai.) “Which way are you 
going?” 

“I was going towards Boscombe.” 

“May I come too?” 

“If you care to.” 

“I’d love to. I’m delighted to see you again. You 
were never stuck up like some ladies I could mention.” 

They talked of any and everything, until Avice asked : 

“Have you seen anything of Mrs. Sylvester lately?” 

“Of course. I was at her wedding.” 

“Wedding!” exclaimed Avice. 

“Oh!” 

“What’s the matter?” asked Avice: her friend’s face 
had fallen: it was as though she had let out something 
she should not have mentioned. 

“I’m sorry,” said the other. 

“What about?” 

“It’s something I shouldn’t have said.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What I say.” 

“Why shouldn’t you mention it?” 

“Well, dear ” 

“Out with it: I’m sure to hear sooner or later, if it’s 
to do with me.” 

“Well, dear, if you insist on knowing — it’s really aw- 
fully awkward telling you — she married Mr. Dale three or 
four weeks ago.” 

“Leonard !” 

“Y-yes.” 

Mrs. Spencer-Paxton turned the subject, and nervously 
spoke of other things ; she could have talked of Avice’s 
divorce for all the heed the latter gave her, for Avice was 
stunned by the news she had heard. 

Her first coherent thought was to get away from the 
other, and try and think things out. 

“I’ll leave you here if you don’t mind,” she said. 


292 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘^But ’’ 

'‘I’m meeting my husband directly.” 

“Very well. Good-bye, dear. And if ever you should 
be in any trouble — things often go wrong, you know — I 
hope you won’t fail to write to me. I’ve had hard times 
myself, so can sympathise with others. Forgive my say- 
ing so, but I don’t forget how kind you used to be.” 

Avice did not reply: she was scarcely aware the other 
had spoken; and knew a great relief at finding herself 
alone. 

Aubrey and Miss Billen were forgotten: all she wanted 
was to come to terms with the surprising news she had 
heard. 

One minute, she would seat herself where she might; 
the next, she was hurrying along as if for dear life, and 
careless where her steps led her. 

Then, as she began to appreciate what she had been 
told, it seemed more and more incredible. 

She had always thought it likely Leonard might marry 
again, if only for Irma’s sake: it was almost unthinkable 
it would be Rene Sylvester. 

Avice was conscious of a shadowy sense of discomfort: 
dim suspicions haunted her mind which she tried hard to 
disregard, and for a time succeeded. 

And the better to ignore these, she did her best to put 
a philosophical face on the matter. 

After all said and done, it was good for Irma, and she 
was the one most to be considered. 

Rene had money; would run Leonard’s home to perfec- 
tion; was fond of the child; and really Avice could wish 
for no other woman to take the place of the mother Irma 
had lost. 

At the same time, it was all very strange, and 

Avice once more wrestled with insurgent thoughts; she 
tried to think she was pleased for Leonard’s sake. 

He was a good, unselfish man; and she was certain 
she had been the love of his life; that he would never, 
could never, give to Rene what he had given to his first 
wife. 

Avice did not know that as a man waxed in years, so 
did his capacity for loving deeply. 


WRAITHS 


293 

And she was whole-heartedly grateful to Leonard be- 
cause he had been so good to her little girl. 

She could forgive him now for having appeared to put 
■ Irma before her : his love for his child had been almost 
that of a woman’s; she could quite believe it when Rene 
had told her Irma called her father “Mother.” 

Avice’s thoughts fastened on Leonard, and as they had 
not done since she had left him. 

Since he was such a good man, she wondered why she 
had never been able to give him all her heart. 

It may have been something to do with his appearance; 
that his nose was too short, or his neck was too long. 

Possibly, if not probably, this had nothing to do with 
it: every day one came across pretty women who adored 
plain men. 

If other things were governed by laws, surely love was 
no exception, love that was a thing of such moment in 
the lives of most men and women ! 

And in support of this, there was no denying that in 
so very many cases, the quicker love came, the more likely 
it was to be deep and strong and lasting. 

Avice was again taken up with the fact of Leonard 
having married Rene Sylvester. 

After all, she should not be so astonished; he always 
liked her, and was frequently at the house 

Avice started up (she had been sitting just then), and 
walked with quick nervous steps, and with a troubled 
mind. 

She wondered if there had been anything between them 
in the long ago : the suspicion inclined her heart to Leonard, 
and as it had never done before. 

Her none too happy life was threatened by a new com- 
plication ; so menacing did it seem that she set about trying 
to explain it away. 

Of course, there was nothing in it: Leonard was the 
soul of honour, and had loved his first wife: and if ever 
there were a good-living woman, it was Rene Sylvester, 
who had made herself a doormat to her dolt of a husband. 

The pain at Avice’s heart diminished ; she sighed a great 
relief. 

But the demon of jealous distrust had not done with her. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


294 

There came into her mind stories Leonard and Aubrey 
had told her of intrigues between, on the face of it, the 
most unlikely people in the world. 

So incredible were some of these that all one could say 
was, ‘'One never really knew.’^ 

Once more, something akin to love for Leonard flamed 
in Avice’s heart. 

A nice thing, she told herself, if, after all that had hap- 
pened, she came to love him. 

But it could not be possible now he was hopelessly out 
of her reach. 

Still, it was the sort of sorry trick Fate loved to play 
on unsuspecting mortals; and love was so irresponsible; 
and had such a knack of taking one unawares, one never 
knew what was going to happen next. 

Doubtless, from a desire to know the worst, A vice 
searched her memory for anything that might confirm her 
suspicion. 

It was a painful business; she saw incidents through the 
glasses of jealousy, glasses which distorted everything she 
looked at, until she was sure there must have been some- 
thing between them. 

And with it all was the reflection : 

“What a fool, oh, what a fool IVe been 

There came to her the recollection of Rene refusing to 
see her on the occasion of her last call. 

What did that mean? 

Avice dreaded a further shock, but, as so often hap- 
pened, the event falsified expectation. 

She had dreaded where she might be led, and she ob- 
tained comparative ease of mind. 

After a lot of disordered thought, the fact clearly 
emerged that Rene had refused to see her because she had 
been engaged to Leonard; since she had behaved so hon- 
estly, it was unthinkable she would have let Leonard make 
love to her in the days Avice had been her friend. 

Notwithstanding this break in the clouds, Avice did not 
go back for luncheon; the sight of food would have made 
her retch ; and she did not want to sit next to Aubrey : she 
desired to be alone. 

Something to four found her journeying in a motor-bus 


WRAITHS 


295 

she had got into, scarcely knowing why : the conductor had 
called out “Sandbanks” ; and she dimly remembered that 
someone at the boarding-house had said “Sandbanks” was 
worth going to see. 

Directly the bus had started, she wished she had not 
come. 

She had not recovered from the shock of learning 
Leonard was married to Rene Sylvester, although it was 
now some hours since she had heard the news : she wanted 
to think it out, but it was only infrequently that she got 
the better of the stupor in which she was immersed. 

While the bus sped along, Avice mused and mused: it 
might have been carrying her to the edge of the world 
for all she cared. 

She was presently conscious of a change immediately 
about her: instead of substantial houses in their many- 
acred grounds, or the inevitable pines, was a sandy waste 
which seemed to get narrower and narrower. 

The alteration awakened a mild curiosity, which was 
strengthened when the sea came up to the road. 

On noticing the passengers on the farther side of the 
bus staring behind her, Avice turned her head, and saw 
the sea on the other side of the road. 

They were travelling along a sandy isthmus, which was 
soon dotted with bungalows of all sizes and designs. 

The bus went on and on, until it swerved sharply to the 
right, made a long turn to the left, and then entered an 
enclosed space and came to a stop. 

The passengers got out, and Avice did likewise. 

The sea was now in front of her as well as on either 
side ; on her left it was blotted out by an hotel. 

She thought she would like a cup of tea, so entered this, 
and followed some others across a large room, and into a 
big veranda set out with chairs and tables: the three sides 
of this, which commanded an interrupted view of the sea, 
were panelled with glass. 

Directly Avice had taken a seat, she read a notice to 
the effect that the minimum charge for tea served in this 
veranda was a shilling: it seemed a lot for one of her 
limited resources to pay for a cup of tea, but she told herself 
that all she had gone through justified the extravagance. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


296 

Three cups of tea (she did not want anything to eat) 
heartened her, and did a lot to clear the mists that had 
clouded her brain : she looked about her with some 
approach to curiosity. 

The tables were nearly all filled, mostly with young 
people, who were out to enjoy themselves : their laughter 
and gay chatter put into greater relief her comparative 
depression. 

She dropped her eyes, and became reflective, until some- 
thing made her look up, whereupon she saw that Aubrey, 
accompanied by Miss Billen, had entered the tearoom. 

They made as if they were coming in her direction ; hesi- 
tated; turned back; and occupied a table on the farther 
side of the door, where they were not altogether hidden 
from her view. 

After she had got over her first surprise at seeing them, 
she was a little astonished she did not seem to mind; she 
was regarding them with a detached interest, much as 
though they were strangers who had caught her attention. 

Perhaps she was annoyed at the fact of Aubrey throw- 
ing away shillings he could ill afford on taking a girl out 
for the afternoon : that was about all. 

She continued to watch them, and saw how much they 
were taken up with each other; Aubrey would talk with 
animation ; or would listen with attention ; or would put 
his fingers to his forehead in the traditional “Stephen 
Torrens” manner: now and again, he produced pencil and 
paper, and gravely made notes, during which he was re- 
garded with admiring eyes by Miss Billen. 

Avice’s emotions were so disengaged by what she saw 
that she was able to appraise calmly the sight of her hus- 
band in the company of another woman, although she ad- 
mitted that Mrs. Spencer-Paxton’s news may have had 
something to do with her indifference. 

It occurred to her that, doubtless, Aubrey was looking 
to Miss Billen for the sympathy he believed he failed to 
get at home. 

That showed how far he had got on the matrimonial 
journey. 

And his wife, though fully cognisant of what he was at, 
did not care: and it was not so long ago she had dreaded 


WRAITHS 297 

Aubrey’s running after anyone else more than anything in 
the world. 

That showed how far she had got. 

It was all very significant, and a little sad : saddest of all 
was that she took it as a matter of course. 

Avice stayed where she was for a long time; until the 
others, including Aubrey and his companion, had gone 
(these last, without seeing her) : she thought, and thought, 
and thought, and apparently about nothing at all. 

Once more she was awakened out of herself by a sense 
of the unfamiliar: this time, it was a fishing boat which 
passed in full sail astonishingly near to where she sat. 

It was making for Poole Harbour; and was so close that 
she could see the faces of those on board. 

These toilers of the sea who did useful and necessary 
work presented a startling contrast to the finicking holiday- 
makers she had encountered in droves at Bournemouthj 
and had the effect of stripping her mind of its accumulated 
veneer of conventions; and of bringing her in touch with 
elemental things. 

She watched the boat making for harbour until she could 
see it no longer. 

Another and another went by; on looking to seaward 
on her left, she saw a procession of fishing-boats ; all mak- 
ing for home. 

They seemed to stand for something; a significant some- 
thing which was symbolical of things of the spirit. 

She tried to discover what it might be and, for a time, 
it eluded her. 

Light, presently, illumined her darkness, and it seemed 
to her that the fishing-boats were the wraiths of romance; 
romances that were over and done with ; and were now de- 
jectedly stealing to their appointed loneliness. 

She wondered if hers might be among them, until the 
last boat but one held her attention. 

She was a little out of her course; as she tried to regain 
it, Avice was certain it was her very own romance which 
she beheld; her very own romance which was dejectedly 
stealing to its appointed loneliness. 

Avice regarded it with a detached curiosity, much as she 
had regarded her husband and Miss Billen. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


298 

And when it came to rest, she marvelled if it would 
ever forget what had gone before: if it suffered; if it had 
aught to say to the others; or if it kept itself in proud iso- 
lation. 

Avice watched it pass and go into the distance with 
straining eyes. 

It was upon its disappearing from her ken that a sob 
came into her throat. 


CHAPTER XXV 
irma’s plaything 

Avice stood irresolute at the turning leading to Kensington 
Square, where Leonard was living with Irma and Rene: 
it was one of the days she was allowed to see her child by 
permission of the Court. 

Avice was in two minds about going: she longed to set 
eyes on Irma, but knew from past experience how dearly 
she would pay for the privilege in vain regrets and self- 
reproaches : these would afflict her for days : also, the lux- 
urious refinement of Leonard’s house insisted on the mean- 
ness of her Thornton Heath home which use enabled her 
to forget. 

She had come intending to see Irma; the atmosphere 
of prosperity and well-being in which she found herself 
had awakened doubts of the wisdom of the visit. 

She made a few steps forward, lost heart, and turned 
back: unable to make up her mind, she decided to walk a 
little way along the High Street, and think things over, and 
try and make up her mind. 

She had not gone far before she felt a touch on her 
arm: she turned, and found herself confronted by Mr. 
Cuthbert Smee. 

She had met him once or twice since he had spoken to 
her outside the tea-shop in the Earl’s Court Road: once 
in the City; the other time in a Tube railway. 

Avice had not got over her old dislike for him; but, as 
has been said, he was a link with the old days, and she 
led a lonely life: perhaps this was why he mistook the smile 
she gave him for a warmer welcome than it really was. 

“I’m delighted to see you, dear Mrs. Pinnick,” he began. 
“Which way were you going?” 

299 


300 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


‘‘Nowhere in particular/’ 

“May I come with you for five minutes?” 

“If you very much want to.” 

“Of course, I always want to, and more than — 
than ” 

He got no further : he was withheld by the hardening of 
Avice’s face. 

After a few commonplace remarks, he said : 

“And how is your dear husband?” 

“All right,” she returned off-handedly, a thing he was 
quick to notice. 

“Successful as ever!” 

“Oh yes.” 

“Pm so glad to hear that, and ” 

“What are you doing in this part of the world?” asked 
Avice, who wanted to turn the subject, a desire Mr. Smee 
also perceived. 

“Pve been rather at a ‘loose end’ for some time; the 
pater has put me with a land agent here for the present: 
more with the idea of keeping me out of mischief than 
anything else.” 

“Are you doing well at it?” 

“So-so, dear Mrs. Pinnick. As you, perhaps, know, 
I’m more interested in Church work, and all that kind of 
thing.” 

“If that’s so, I wonder you don’t get ordained !” 

“I beg your pardon.” 

Avice repeated what she had said. 

“Too many temptations, you know.” 

“Temptations 1” 

“One’s thrown a lot with the girls, and all that sort of 
thing; and it’s only human to be weak sometimes.” 

“Why have we turned up here?” asked Avice shortly: 
his remark had made her alive to the fact that he had 
piloted her up a side-turning. 

“I want to leave a message for a man here.” 

“Oh !” 

“If you don’t mind walking with me!” 

“If it isn’t very far.” 

“Only a few minutes.” 

Avice’s heart inclined to Irma, who was waiting in ex- 


IRMA’S PLAYTHING 


301 

pectation of seeing her mother; she wished she had gone 
straight to the house; that she was not wasting precious 
time with Mr. Smee. 

Perhaps, because her mind was full of other things, she 
did not at once notice that Mr. Smee’s eyes rarely left her 
face ; that he was edging against her as they walked. 

The attraction she held for him became so marked as 
to make her aware of what he was at: she stopped short, 
and at the same time as he did. 

“Here we are,” he remarked. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Smee,” returned Avice. 

“You’re surely not going!” 

«But ” 

“Not now!” 

“Why shouldn’t I go now?” asked Avice. 

“I made certain you were coming in with me,” he said 
in an aggrieved voice. 

“Where your friend lives?” 

“My friend doesn’t live here.” 

‘^Then ” 

“I have a little flat here, and I thought you’d come in 
for — for a little chat.” 

She was so taken aback by all his words implied that 
she was unable to speak: mistaking her silence for a dis- 
position to fall in with his desires, he went on: 

“Come along. I knew it would be all right.” 

“All right!” she gasped. 

“After all that’s happened, I was certain you’d be — 
well — broad-minded — and you see I’m right,” he almost 
giggled. 

“What do you mean, Mr. Smee?” 

“Eh!” 

“What do you mean?” 

Then, as she saw that because she had dared all for the 
man she loved, she was regarded by this caricature of a 
man as an easy prey for himself and his like, shame and 
indignation welled within her. 

She could not have suffered a worse insult: it cut her 
to the quick. 

Tears came into her eyes, and it was only with a great 
effort that she kept them from falling: she wished Aubrey 


302 A PILLAR OF SALT 

was with her, so he could deal with this man as he 
deserved. 

Meantime, Smee was eyeing her, and was uncertain how 
to take her; perhaps his passion got the better of his dis- 
cretion, for he put a detaining hand upon her arm. 

She shook it off as she might some foul thing, and turned 
and confronted him with flaming eyes. 

“You beast!’’ she cried. 

“Mrs. Pinnick 1” 

“You beast. If you were a man — ^but then you’re 
not.” 

“Mrs. ” 

“You always reminded me of a slug. And if you were 
the last man in the world !” 

She said no more, and hurried away with scalding tears 
on her cheek, and anguish in her heart. 

Her first impulse was to go straight home and hide her- 
self away with her griefs: but the thought of her box of 
a villa after the Kensington atmosphere she had breathed 
was intolerable; then she thought of spending a quiet hour 
in Kensington Gardens, and walked in this direction until 
she remembered the exquisite hours she had enjoyed there 
on a certain Sunday afternoon in the long ago with the 
man who was now her husband. 

The sun of her love had shone with noontide splendour 
then ; it was now darkened by persistent clouds : she had 
no mind to visit a place that would bring home to her the 
change that had taken place. 

She hesitated, and as she did so, the hurt she had re- 
ceived from Mr. Smee smartened afresh ; she felt the need 
of something that would restore the self-esteem she had 
lost. 

This was why five minutes later found her on the door- 
step of Leonard’s home in Kensington Square. 

“I want to see Miss Irma,” she said to the smart maid 
who opened the door. 

“What name, please!” 

“I’m Mrs. Pinnick.” 

The maid eyed her as curiously as she dared, and said : 

“Madam left word that you might call. This way, 
please!” 


IRMA’S PLAYTHING 


303 

Avice was conducted across a luxuriously furnished hall, 
and upstairs to the drawing-room. 

She tried to shut her eyes to the appointments and deco- 
rations, which were eloquent of taste and means, but it 
was not easy : during the five minutes or so she had to wait 
till Irma came to her, she was looking from one thing to 
another with eyes of mingled admiration and envy. 

She could not help contrasting all she saw with her own 
home: so bitter was the comparison that she wished she 
had not come. 

Avice heard a light footstep behind her (she had been 
examining some enamel plaques over the fireplace), and 
turned : Irma had entered the room, and was shyly, it may 
have been nervously, regarding her mother. 

Neither of them spoke for some moments : Irma was 
waiting for her mother to begin; Avice was withheld by 
the emotions that possessed her. 

Her first impression was the way the child had grown 
since she had last seen her; Irma was now getting on for 
thirteen, and was tall, and well developed for her age ; next, 
she perceived how much Irma resembled her: she had the 
same broad, clear brow ; the same hazel eyes ; and her hair 
curled as Avice’s had done ; but she had a finer mouth ; and 
a less resolute chin ; and something in the way she carried 
herself awoke memories of Leonard. 

Then, she perceived how well, and how neatly, the child 
was dressed : this pleased and annoyed Avice. 

She was delighted Irma was well cared for; but she 
hotly resented the fact of another woman looking after 
what was flesh of her flesh ; bone of her bone. 

Avice’s heart hardened; she was about to ask Irma how 
she was, and then take her leave : a quick and well-remem- 
bered movement of the child’s head opened the floodgates 
of tender memory, and dissipated her resentment. 

She approached Irma, clasped her in her arms, and re- 
peatedly and passionately kissed her hair and her face: 
even as she did so, she realised the child was standing 
limply in her arms; and endured rather than returned her 
mother’s embrace. 

This struck a chill to Avice’s heart, whereupon she drew 
back, and said: 


304 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


^Well, dear?” 

‘‘Well?” 

“I do so hope you are well.” 

“Quite, thank you.” 

“And happy?” 

“Very, thank you.” 

“You are sure, dear?” 

“So sure.” 

“And there is nothing you want?” 

“No.” 

“Nothing you miss?” 

“Nothing.” 

“You are sure, quite sure of this?” asked Avice with 
a tightening at her throat. 

“Ever so sure,” returned Irma, and in a voice that con- 
veyed no doubt she was speaking the truth. 

“You are still going to school?” was Avice’s next ques- 
tion. 

“Of course.” 

“And you like it?” 

“Of course.” 

“You haven’t your holidays now?” 

“Oh, no. I was kept at home to-day because — ^because 
you might be coming.” 

“You hadn’t forgotten that?” asked Avice eagerly. 
“Daddie and mummie told me.” 

Avice could not speak for a moment or two; the next 
thing she said was: 

“You are growing up a good girl?” 

“I try to be.” 

“I am so glad.” 

“But it’s not hard.” 

“Why, dear?” 

The child hesitated. 

“Tell me.” 

“It’s— it’s ” 

“Go on, dear.” 

“It’s not hard because I wouldn’t do anything to hurt 

darling daddie and ” 

“That’s enough,” said Avice sharply. 

She bit her lip and hung her head; on raising her eyes, 


IRMA^S PLAYTHING 305 

she saw that Irma was regarding her with the old critical 
look which had been first awakened by the lie she (Avice) 
had told the night of the '‘Dudley’’ dance. 

“Why do you look at me like that, dear?” she asked. 

“I don’t know,” returned Irma. 

“I — I don’t think I’ll stay any longer,” said Avice after 
a silence, and waited in suspense for what her daughter 
would say. 

“Very well.” 

'‘I — I suppose you’re busy with something?” 

“Not very.” 

“I’m so glad to see you looking so well, dear. You look 
even better than when I saw you last.” 

“That was a long time ago.” 

“Six months, dear.” 

“Last year, wasn’t it?” 

“This.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, dear. Don’t you remember I brought you a 
dolly?” 

This forgetfulness was a further, and a grievous blow 
to Avice. 

She would have gone without much ado had not Irma 
said : 

“I’ve a beautiful new dolly upstairs.” 

“Have you, dear?” 

“Would you like to see it?” 

“Of course.” 

The child hesitated, and Avice said : 

“Mayn’t I see it?” 

“It’s very precious. I’ll see who’s about.” 

Irma left the room, and Avice waited and waited; the 
child did not return, and she was wondering if she should 
go, when Irma re-entered the room: she carried an ex- 
quisitely dressed and very fat baby. 

Avice was bereft of speech; she stared with hard eyes 
at Irma’s burden. 

“Isn’t he a beauty?” asked Irma. 

“Is he?” 

“I think he’s simply lovely. I do love him so.” 

“You do?” absently from Avice. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


306 

^T do. I do. I do,” declared Irma fervently. 

Avice stood stock still, and as though she were turned 
into stone: she hated the baby with a bitter hatred, and 
wished it out of her sight, and that it had never been born. 

Irma fell to kissing and fondling him; seeing her fuss- 
ing over him much as she had done in the long ago with 
Irma went to Avice’s heart. 

The child presently looked up ; stared hard at her mother ; 
and said: 

^‘You are crying!’^ 

Avice shook her head. 

“You are; you know you are!” said Irma; upon her 
mother not replying, she added: 

“ni take my darling dolly to the nursery. I won’t be a 
moment.” 

Irma was as good as her word ; she left with her precious 
burden, and was not long away: on coming back there 
was no one in the room. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


APOTHEOSIS 

WONDER if there^l be many people there 

‘T wonder!’^ absently from Avice; her thoughts were 
afield, as they so often were now. 

‘Tn these degenerate days, intellectual interests are more 
and more disregarded.” 

“I suppose so.” 

“And there may be scarcely anyone at all.” 

“Perhaps !” 

“Still — are you listening, Avice ?” 

“Of course, Aubrey.” 

“My name should prove an attraction,” he remarked 
complacently ; and added : “There are doubtless a 
few who may care to know what I have to say about 
‘Style.’ ” 

“No doubt.” 

“The man who knows is really the only man worth 
hearing,” he said pontifically, if fatuously. 

Avice and her husband were on their way from Thorn- 
ton Heath to an address that was either at the Hamp- 
stead end of Kilburn, or the Kilburn end of Hampstead, 
where were held during the autumn and winter months 
the fortnightly meetings of a society calling itself “Le 
Petit Salon,” which, according to the prospectus, existed 
“for the hearing of lectures by Celebrities on Literary 
and Artistic Subjects; and the interchange of Ideas 
amongst Cultured Ladies and Gentlemen of Advanced 
Thought.” 

The subscription was nominal; and there seemed no 
insuperable difficulty in attaining the dignity of member- 
ship. 


307 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


308 

Miss Myra Billen, whom, it may be remembered, the 
Pinnicks had met at ^^Montacute,” Bournemouth, was on 
the Advisory Committee: it was owing to her that Mr. 
Aubrey Pinnick had been invited to lecture on “Style.” 

Avice did not like it at all: she did not much care for 
her husband’s continued intimacy with Miss Billen, but 
would not have minded if it had been left at that. 

Unfortunately, from her point of view, the friendship 
had resulted in his going out a lot with her to Intellectual 
“At Homes,” where Aubrey delighted in being a giant 
among the pigmies who foregathered at these places ; 
these outings, together with the time he had given to 
the preparation of his lecture, took him away from his 
work, and lessened his chances of making badly wanted 
money. 

Over and above this, he had become annoyingly con- 
ceited since he had been asked to lecture: he could think 
of nothing else, and had bored his wife to distraction by 
his moods, and his prolonged silences during which he was 
searching for the “inevitable” word. 

As has been said, they were on their way to Hampstead, 
or somewhere very near it; and Miss Billen was to meet 
them at Victoria. 

Aubrey took out his notes and conned them with his 
forefinger to his forehead in the traditional “Stephen Tor- 
rens” manner, which was getting on Avice’s nerves. 

She avoided looking at him as far as she could, and let 
her thoughts wander where they listed. 

“What are you thinking of?” he asked presently. 

“If that half-leg of mutton we had for dinner weighed 
what was on the ticket.” 

“Avice!” 

^T)o you think it weighed four pounds?” 

“My dear! Really!” 

“What’s the matter, Aubrey?” she asked in sur- 
prise. 

“Talking of such a thing on a night like this.” 

Avice looked at him with puzzled eyes. 

“The night I’m lecturing on 'Style,’ ” he went on. 

“Is that alir’ 

“What?” 


APOTHEOSIS 


309 


“I thoug^ht Fd said something dreadful.’’ 

Aubrey made an impatient gesture. 

“What have I said wrong?” she asked. 

“Never mind,” he returned curtly, and muttered some- 
thing about sympathy. 

The rest of the journey was taken in silence. 

Miss Billen was awaiting them at Victoria; Avice could 
not help noticing the change in her husband directly he 
met his friend; he was no longer glum or self-absorbed; 
he was alert and light of heart. 

And the most significant thing about it was that it did 
not worry her. 

She kept herself to herself, and let the others do 
the talking: infrequent scraps penetrated her under- 
standing. 

“I feel so proud,” said Miss Billen on one of these occa- 
sions. 

“Why?” returned Pinnick. 

“At your lecturing to-night. My getting you is a very 
fine feather in my cap.” 

Aubrey seemed to preen himself as he said: 

“Fm delighted if it pleases you.” 

“Really!” asked Miss Billen under her breath. 

“Really,” he replied in an undertone. 

Later: “Isn’t writing a wonderful gift?” asked Miss 
Billen. 

“Is it?” complacently from Pinnick. 

“Surely you think so?” 

“I suppose it is.” 

“And if one can’t write oneself, the next best thing is to 
know those who do — that is if the privilege comes one’s 
way.” 

Aubrey smoothed his over-long back hair, and beamed 
on Miss Billen. 

There was much more of this sort of thing; the offering 
of incense by the one, its greedy acceptance by the other, 
until they reached their destination. 

“Le Petit Salon” held its meetings in a double room on 
the first floor of a basemented three-storied house; some 
twenty or thirty people were already gathered together, 
and Aubrey was received by the organizer, a Mrs. Higgle, 


310 A PILLAR OF SALT 

who seemed a little put out he had not brought a large party 
with him. 

He, Avice, and Miss Billen were conducted to a small 
room at the back, where they were offered coffee and cake. 

“What time do we begin?” asked Aubrey. 

“It’s timed for eight,” replied Mrs. Diggle. “But we’d 
better wait a little in case any more are coming.” 

“Don’t you expect many more?” asked Aubrey huffily. 

“It’s their loss if they don’t come,” rejoined Mrs. 
Diggle. 

Happily for everyone’s peace of mind more people had 
arrived by the time Aubrey, who was immensely enjoying 
himself, was conducted by Mrs. Diggle and Miss Billen to 
the farther end of the room; after a long-winded introduc- 
tion from someone, whom no one wanted to hear, Aubrey 
got on to his feet, and commenced what he had to say. 

Avice had declined a seat in the front row of chairs, and 
went almost to the back, where she said she would be less 
nervous; as a matter of fact, she wasn’t nervous at all, 
and wanted to be free to think her own thoughts unob- 
served. 

She had heard so much of the lecture that it did not 
interest her at all; she wanted to figure out her house- 
keeping balance in face of obstinately infrequent cheques 
and persistently recurring expenditure : all the lecture mat- 
tered to her was the possibility of its leading to anything 
tangible. 

She looked about her in order to see if there were any- 
one “Useful” present; so far as she could tell, and she 
was now no fool at the game , it did not seem very 
likely. 

With barely an exception, they were much of a much- 
ness with Miss Billen; self-conscious “Thinkers” of subur- 
bia, victims of intellectual snobbism, who, after listening 
to the music of their own voices, loved nothing better than 
to come in touch with someone who was anyone in the 
world of art and letters. 

This was not inspired by a craving for enlightenment, 
so much as a desire to impress their less favoured friends 
with the fact of their having rubbed shoulders with whom- 
soever the someone might be. 


APOTHEOSIS 


311 

The exceptions were two men who sat almost directly 
behind Avice; they gave little heed to Aubrey (this awak- 
ened her latent loyalty, and made her hate them), and 
called one another’s attention to unusual-looking men and 
women in the room. 

The applause that punctuated the lecture diverted her 
mind to the lecturer. 

Aubrey certainly looked handsome and intellectual in 
his evening clothes; excitement had coloured his normally 
pale cheeks; his fine eyes glowed with enthusiasm as he 
warmed to his subject. 

How different it would all be, she told herself, if he 
could only earn a competence. That would alter every- 
thing: it would make him less irritable and self-centred, 
and would free her mind from sordid household worries, 
and thus enable her to give him the sympathy he needed; 
the sympathy he often complained she withheld. 

Perhaps, after all, some editor or magazine proprietor 
might be present, who would take up her clever husband so 
that he might receive the recognition he merited. 

She had long waited for the special Providence which 
she had been led to believe made it its business to look 
after those who had done what she had done; perhaps it 
had selected as its instrument someone who was here 
to-night. 

The lecture came to an end; a vote of thanks was pro- 
posed to “the distinguished literary gentleman who had 
honoured us to-night”; seconded by Miss Billen; and car- 
ried enthusiastically and unanimously. 

The meeting became an informal gathering where nearly 
everyone was burning to be introduced to the big gun of 
the evening. 

Flushed with his success, Aubrey came over to speak 
to her more than once; on these occasions (it was usually 
so when they were with others) they “deared” and “dar- 
linged” each other as persistently as any honeymoon couple : 
perhaps such outward and visible signs of affection were 
an advertisement of the fact that they were still in love; 
and that, for all their bad beginnings, their marriage had 
turned out a success. 

Avice, otherwise, kept in the background; just now, no 


312 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


one ran after her, for which she was more thankful than 
otherwise: if she had been on firmer ground — that is to 
say, if she were well turned out, and had a nice house or 
flat to which she could ask people — she would have de- 
lighted in fussing about and doing her best for Aubrey. 

Once more (it was such an old story, and seemed likely 
to go on till the end of the chapter) it was all a matter of 
ways and means. 

Avice, nevertheless, kept her eyes and ears open; all 
that she saw and heard confirmed her belief that the mem- 
bers of “Le Petit Salon” were very small beer. 

Apart from the lecturer, the man who attracted most 
attention was a Mr. Moggridge, and on account of his re- 
semblance to Mr. Bernard Shaw, a resemblance he did his 
best to further by wearing Jaeger garments. 

He was run a close second by someone, who knew some- 
one, who knew Mr. Chesterton. 

Then there was a youngish man, who was all forehead 
and neck, and who was another ‘‘find” of Miss Billen’s : 
he was introduced to Avice as the Ste. Beauve of Crickle- 
wood, and endeavoured to live up to his reputation by carp- 
ing at anything and everything. 

Those members of the “salon” who had not such claims 
to eminence sought to win distinction by taking under their 
several wings some little-known genius, Russian for 
choice, and proclaiming him as their own priceless dis- 
covery. 

But whatsoever they did or did not, they could all talk: 
Avice was about the only silent one in the room; her dis- 
appointment at discovering what sort of people Aubrey 
had wasted precious time upon depressed her. 

She was recognized as a listener, and, consequently, was 
soon the most sought-after person in the “salon” : men and 
women crowded about her, and bombarded her with tenth- 
rate epigrams of home-made manufacture, or propounded 
at wearisome length theories of art which were either long 
out of date or patently absurd. 

Avice listened patiently with a set smile on her face: if 
they could only know what she thought of them all. 

At the same time, she could not help envying many of 
the women because their menfolk were not artistic, and 


APOTHEOSIS 


313 

most probably had regularly paid jobs, and could thus keep 
their womenfolk in some approach to comfort 

A little faded woman would not let Avice be; she talked 
and talked of her Art, and her Life Work, until, more 
with the idea of getting rid of her than anything else, Avice 
asked her what she did. 

“Lm an authoress,” she replied, and self-consciously 
dropped her 6yes. 

“What do you write?” 

“Books, of course.” 

“What kind of books?” 

“Novels.” 

“Had any published?” 

“I refuse to have my work published.” 

“Really. May I ask why?” inquired Avice. 

“Oh ! I’m writing for posterity,” simpered the authoress. 

After all the epigrams had been fired and the theories 
of art exhausted, perhaps for want of anything further 
to say, they fell to praising Aubrey. 

This was music to Avice’s ears, and did something to 
strengthen her shaken confidence in her husband. 

Neglected genius was such an old story in the history 
of the world ; after all, there might be a turn of fortune’s 
wheel, and any morning he might awake and find himself 
famous, with the result that her troubles would be at 
an end. 

Avice’s heart ached for such a consummation: she had 
been sorely tried, and wanted freedom from the worries 
that consumed her. 

She perceived the two men who had been sitting behind 
ker and quizzing the audience during the lecture talking 
by themselves in a corner, and presently found herself so 
near to them as to enable her to overhear what they were 
saying. 

“Who is this Aubrey Pinnick ? Know much about him ?” 
asked one. 

“What is there to know?” returned the other. 

“Isn’t he an author of sorts?” 

“Believe so.” 

“Any good?’' 

“Of course not” (this with conviction). “He’s one of 


314 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


those men with a thin talent which is good as far as 
it goes, but the trouble is it doesn’t go very far.” 

“London’s full of such people.” 

“Someone told me he complains he can’t get along be- 
cause he’s up against what he calls the ‘Ring.’ That sort 
of grievance is always a hall-mark of mediocrity.” 

“Then you don’t think he’ll ever do anything?” 

“‘What do you think’!” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


A NIGHT OUT 

‘^Only standing room.” 

Aubrey and A vice left the pit entrance of a theatre and 
stood irresolute on the pavement. 

^‘They may have circle seats,” suggested Avice. 

‘‘No doubt.” 

“Can’t we afford them?” 

“Can we?” 

“I suppose we’d better not,” she sighed. 

“We must try and get in somewhere else.” 

“But where?” 

“I hear ‘Light and Darkness’ is a good piece,” said 
Aubrey. 

“It’s sure to be full then.” 

“We should have started earlier.” 

“You know very well why I didn’t. I hate that waiting 
outside, with everyone staring at you.” 

“I don’t see why you should hate it.” 

“It’s ignominious,” she declared. 

“It’s no use talking about it. If we don’t get along we 
shan’t get in anywhere.” 

The evening’s outing had been the result of a domestic 
storm. 

Things had not been going well even for them, and Au- 
brey had repeated at wearisome length his stock grievances 
about not getting on: of course the “Ring” was at the 
bottom of it, and Avice had been hard put to it to curb 
her temper. 

The conversation she had overheard at “Le Petit Salon” 
had been the death-blow to her hopes; it confirmed much 
she had hitherto suspected, and tried to shut her eyes to: 

315 


3i6 a pillar of SALT 

she regarded it as the last straw in the burden she had to 
bear. 

This morning, upon Aubrey complaining as usual, she 
had interrupted him by bluntly saying he should look out 
for regular work, and write in his spare time. 

He had been angry and hurt by her suggestion: after 
he had got over his first surprise, he told her that any 
sort of job would interfere with his ‘"inspiration.” 

She had pointed out where “free-lancing” was leading 
them, whereupon he had become irritable, and had as good 
as told her he had been handicapped by getting married. 

“How do you mean by getting married?” she had asked. 

“What I say.” 

“I don’t see it.” 

“You never see anything you don’t want to.” 

“If you ask me, I think I’m the one who has lost most,” 
she had declared. 

“How do you mean?” 

“This,” she had said with a jerk of her head which 
referred to the Thornton Heath home. ^ 

“We are wandering from the point,” he had gone on. 
“A not unusual phenomenon in this establishment. What 
I say is this : that if I’d not married, I could have joined 
literary clubs and all that sort of thing.” 

“Men get on without belonging to literary clubs.” 

“I doubt it.” 

“I know it!” she cried. 

“Assertion and fact are different ” 

“If you’re sorry you married me, you have only to say 
so,” she had interrupted. 

“I didn’t say so.” 

“You implied it. But then you haven’t had the high old 
time I’ve had in this house.” 

There had followed a painful wrangle (it was not the 
only one that had taken place of late) ; after it was over, 
Avice had had a fit of depression, and had implored Aubrey 
to take her out for the evening. 

He had pleaded he was hard up and had reluctantly con- 
sented; they had had an “egg tea” (how Avice would have 
shuddered at the thought of such a thing in the compara- 
tively fat days of Eardley Crescent) and not quite fresh 


A NIGHT OUT 


317 

eggs at that; had started soon after six; and Aubrey had 
exasperated his wife by reading a pocket volume the whole 
way up to Victoria. 

Now they were looking for a theatre that had room in 
the pit. 

The theatres were having a spell of good luck ; they tried 
another, and another, without success. 

They got into Shaftesbury Avenue, and on coming to a 
theatre with which they were unfamiliar, they went to the 
vestibule to see what the play might be. 

“Won’t this do?” suggested Aubrey: he hated going out 
and was bored. 

“What do you think!” 

“I suppose it will do as well as any other.” 

They were making for the pit door as a motor landau- 
lette drew up ; a glimpse of one of its occupants made Avice 
linger behind her husband and watch it disgorge its con- 
tents. 

Leonard, Ren^ and Irma got out. 

Avice saw them only for the time it took them to cross 
the pavement; it was enough for her to see that Leonard 
looked unexpectedly older and greyer; that Irma and Rene 
were wearing smart evening frocks. 

The atmosphere of the little group was that of a happy 
family party : husband and wife walked with Irma between 
them, and each with an arm about her with an embrace that 
was symbolical. 

There was an astonishing change in Rene. 

Her old friend had been consumed with anxiety for her 
husband in the old days, and had suffered deeply at his 
death: her sorrows had been written in her face. 

She looked years younger ; charmingly lighthearted ; and 
instinct with happiness. 

And with it all was a sobering sweetness which would 
have made Avice think, if Rene had been any other than 
the one who had taken her place with Leonard, “there goes 
an exquisite woman with the eyes and heart of a child.” 

Most significant of all, her face held a smile Avice had 
never seen before. 

She could not get it out of her mind, but would not 
suffer herself to fathom what it might mean. 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


318 

There was room in the theatre, and she and Aubrey had 
fairly good seats which commanded a view of the boxes; 
Leonard and the others were not in one of these, so Avice 
concluded they were in the stalls. 

She did not go out of her way to discover if they were 
in front of her; seeing them go into the theatre had upset 
her quite enough. 

She barely replied to Aubrey’s chance remarks, where- 
upon he pulled out his book and went on reading: this 
time, she did not mind at all; indeed, she scarcely noticed 
what he was at. 

And with regard to the play, she hardly knew what it 
was about: she would listen to a few passages; or observe 
the details of an actress’s frock; and in a moment, she 
might as well have been sitting at home for any heed she 
gave to the performance. 

What did it all mean? she kept on asking herself. Why 
had she left Leonard to live with Aubrey, and endure the 
endless disadvantage of her second marriage? 

She had not been happy with her first husband because 
she had wanted romance: on the other hand, she had had 
Irma; a comfortable home; and a social foothold. 

She had met Aubrey and fallen head over ears in love 
with him; and she had left Leonard because she thought 
living with the man she loved would provide the romance 
she craved for before anything else in the world. 

And once more she told herself that, as things had turned 
out, she might just as well have been living with Leonard, 
enjoying Irma’s loving companionship and the fleshpots 
provided by Aunt Em’s legacy. 

And should she ever think of romance, as now, she 
laughed discordantly to herself. 

Again and again she asked herself why she had done 
what she had done: just now, the justification of a mad 
passion for the man at her side provided an insufficient 
explanation. 

A word let fall by one of the characters caught her ear : 
it was “marionettes” ; it awoke a dim recollection of some- 
thing she had forgotten. 

She tried to recall what it was ; failed ; and endeavoured 
to put it out of her mind. 


K NIGHT OUT 


319 

The word haunted her; much as she was haunted by 
Rene’s smile when not bothered by other things; and 
would not be denied. 

During one of the intervals (Aubrey was still reading) it 
came to her that the something she was striving to remem- 
ber was what M. de Brillac had said about marionettes. 

He had told her in his whimsical way that we were all 
marionettes; that destiny pulled the strings, and made us 
dance as it listed. 

This was the only explanation Avice could furnish with 
regard to all that had happened. She had been a marion- 
ette ; and destiny had pulled the strings controlling her ; and 
had done with her as it willed. 

And there was something else M. de Brillac had said : it 
was to the effect that all one could do against destiny was 
to call philosophy to one’s aid, and laugh: but if one wept 
and cried aloud, one was indeed vanquished. 

Avice asked herself if it were possible for her to laugh 
at her sorrows T she was so utterly cast down it would not 
bear thinking about. 

Avice was immersed in a very slough of despair, until the 
playing of fanciful music did something to lift her out of it. 

Even after she had recovered comparative peace of mind, 
she could not forget Rene’s smile. 

The play came to an end without her having any clear 
idea what it was all about; she would have liked to have 
followed it, and thus prevented herself from thinking of 
other things : that had been impossible. 

‘‘Hurry up,” said Aubrey. “Let’s get out before the 
crush.” 

Avice delayed: although she knew it would bring back 
her depression, she wanted to have a further sight of the 
three she had seen going into the theatre. 

In face of Aubrey’s admonitions, she hung about so that 
they were almost the last to leave the pit: as luck would 
have it, they emerged into the street as Leonard escorted his 
wife and Irma across the pavement. 

Avice resisted a sudden impulse to show herself to them ; 
and again Rene turned so that Avice could see her face. 

It wore the smile that haunted Avice; and once more 
she set herself against divining what it might mean. 


320 


A PILLAR OF SALT 


But it flashed across her brain that she, herself, must have 
smiled like that when Irma had been a tiny Irma. 

The three entered the motor-car; Rene and Irma were 
carefully tucked in; and the door was shut: as the car 
passed Avice on its journey westward, she was certain 
Leonard had seen her. 

'‘Come along, Avice : what are you mooning about for T’ 
said Aubrey: he had been stamping his feet and looking 
at a theatrical poster while his wife had lingered on the 
pavement. 

'T was thinking,” she replied nonchalantly. 

"This time of night !” 

"How are we going home?” 

"The way we came, I suppose.” 

"Can't we run to a taxi?” 

"All the way home?” 

"To Victoria.” 

"Pm afraid not.” 

"Come on, then,” said Avice. 

"Unless !” 

"Never mind.” 

^‘But !” 

"Never mind now. But promise me” (Avice’s heart had 
suddenly inclined to her husband) "you won’t read in the 
train.” 

"Not if you really don’t wish me to.” 

"You may as much as you like another time ; but promise 
you won’t to-night.” 

"Why to-night?” 

"Never mind why. Promise! Promise!” 

"I promise.” 

They went to Victoria by bus ; and in the train, although 
Avice had begged her husband not to read, she did not 
open her mouth. 

Neither did she notice the martyred expression on his 
face; nor that he sat with a hand on the book in his 
pocket. 

She was haunted by Rene’s smile, and thought sourly of 
all that lay behind it. 


THE END 







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